I still haven't written you a letter. Not a whole one, anyway. If you are anything like all of the other people I have loved, I will write you one long, continuous letter, in many stages, over the course of my life. Why not begin.
I have already written to you privately, and I will continue to do so. You know how some things must be shared. I hope you understand how grief is one of those things. Even if you don't, you're certainly getting to witness enough of it now.
That's what I really don't understand. How could you not have known the effect this would have? How could you not believe how deeply how many people would miss you? How did you not know how big an impact you made, and on how many lives?
I am determined to let this change me for the better, because if I do not, then it will all have been worthless. I owe you better than that.
Strangely, this has helped me on my own journey of mental health. I took your mother's advice and took my medicine. It helped me get out of the hole. I will always wonder if things would have been different if, that Saturday, we had acknowledged how deeply we were both there. I understand how you could have found yourself on that cusp so suddenly. I understand that we were one choice apart from each other. What an enormous rift.
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I didn't know what your entry was going to be about when I logged on and saw that you had updated. I decided to write mine first and then check. It's strange how these things keep occurring.
I broke down a little bit at the end because I find myself asking some of the same questions. Sometimes I get upset with myself for not being the person I promised I would try to be after processing what had happened.
And maybe it doesn't need to be said, and maybe it does. But I want to say things directly now. I am glad you are here. And you have touched just as many lives, and for that I will always be grateful.
I guess I am not finding all of the words I intended, and that's okay. I think you get it, regardless.
-d
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