Life between chapters

Dear S.,

I’m not going to ask how you are, because I know you’re doing well.
And that certainty gives me peace.

Things here are much the same, but at the same time everything is changing. Maybe you know the feeling: the paradoxical rhythm of life with kids, where routines repeat, but life shifts far too quickly.

The last time I wrote to you was four years ago. I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. Acknowledging you scares me and makes me deeply sad.
But I’ve reached a point where I can no longer pretend that you didn’t exist.
And I don’t want to.

You were, and still are, such a big part of who I am.
I still love you so much.
I still miss you.

The reason for my last letter was to help me process some things in therapy. My youngest son had just been born.
V. had just died.
Everything felt confusing, heavy and unbearably sad.
Even my marriage was struggling.

Worst of all, I couldn’t pray anymore.
I could only scream about how God was such a tyrant.
It was a dark time.

It all started when I turned thirty-eight.
I couldn’t believe I was older than you would ever be.
Not only older, but alive.
Not only alive, but with life growing inside me.

Deep down, I found that unbearably unfair.
Why did I get to turn 38?
Why was life still moving forward?

First came sadness, then the lack of will to get out of bed.
After that, the anxiety attacks started.
For the first time in my life, I was terrified of dying and leaving my young children behind.
And if I’m honest, that is still my greatest fear.

After a few months, my youngest son was born. Everything went well, and we came home as a family of four and life looked perfect from the outside.

But inside me, a darkness was growing, forcing its way out, wanting to consume me completely.
Then the compulsive behavior began.
I woke up several times each night to make sure my children were breathing.
By the time I realized what was happening, I was already deep inside a dark hole.
I needed help.

One thing I am very good at is asking for help.
I wouldn’t let the darkness take me.
I was a mother.
I had to fight.

So after reaching out to people who could help me, I found myself sitting in a chair across from my therapist.
A wise, wonderful man who helped me immensely.

Session after session, I felt better, but something was still missing, until one day, he asked me if I could write you a letter.

To be honest, I thought it was a stupid idea. But I did it anyway. When he asked me to read it out loud during our last session, we both ended up crying.

We wrapped things up.
That season passed.
Life went on.
I felt much better.

Still, there was always something in the background, silently growing, taking space, shaping things inside me.
Something I knew would show its face one day or another.
And it did.
But more on that later.

Time moved on.
Slowly the shadows eased.
The kids grew older. We moved to another city, started new jobs, and my husband and I found our way back to each other.

We are happy. Our little family is the most important thing to us.
We love each other, and we are growing together.
This right here feels right.
A miracle.
An act of grace.
Our family.

Let me tell you about the kids.

You would love them so much. Sometimes I can almost hear you laughing at something my oldest says. He reminds me so much of myself as a child. His personality is so similar to mine. He loves drama, but he’s also thoughtful and sensitive to other people’s feelings.

The youngest is incredibly funny, and it amazes me how much he reminds me of you. He even looks like you. He’s bold and not afraid of anything.
And he loves fearlessly.

They love playing together, but sometimes they fight like crazy, driving me crazy in return. That’s the essence of siblings, right?
Those boys bring so much joy into our lives.
Everything we do is for them.

I love being a mom. It’s hard, surprisingly lonely, and exhausting.
But I truly love it.
I never knew a love like this existed.

But motherhood scares the shit out of me.
So many things can go wrong.
Such a huge responsibility.

Some days you think you’re doing a good job; other days you wonder if you’re doing anything right at all.
I think you would laugh at my attempt at being a mom.

It’s funny, I just realized that whenever I think of you, you’re always laughing or smiling. There’s something contradictory about that.
In my thoughts, you’re smiling, while my own face contorts with pain.

And that’s one of the reasons I’m writing to you again.
Pain.

I’m back in therapy.
I needed it.
Again.

I don’t know how to separate myself from you anymore. For so long, I thought I had to be you to keep you with me. That belief stayed with me for so long that I no longer know who I truly am.

And I need to be me.
Just me.

And you need to be you.
Just you.

I still want you in my life, but I don’t want to need pain in order to keep you there.
I don’t want to erase myself to hold on to you.

So from now on, I’ll write to you like this.
You in your silence.
Me, still here.
Two separate people, two different stories.
And one big, enduring love that I know will live on forever.

I love you.
I miss you.

Kelly