Dear Mom,
I started this letter about a billion times. I wrote about how much I miss you. Then I wrote about how I was fine without you.
I wrote about how awesome things are at home. Then I wrote about how messy the kitchen is and how sick I am of peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and pizza for dinner. (We’ve tried different toppings to mix it up, but I still could live without seeing cheese again for a long time. And let me tell you—anchovies 100% taste as gross as they look.)
I wrote about how I’m rocking softball. Then I wrote about how the All-Star team is the best and maybe even the worst thing that’s happening to me.
I miss you, Mom. I even miss you yelling at me to get up in the morning. I miss you telling me that I can’t have ice cream for breakfast and that if I miss the bus, I’ll have to walk to school backward.
I was angry at you for a long time. I think a little bit (okay, a lot) of me is still angry. I still don’t all the way understand how this is a disease. It’s not hard to make a decision—can’t you decide to drink water instead of wine? Just like I decide to drink pink lemonade instead of iced tea?
Your brain is sick and it yells at you, though. That’s what Dad says. I’m trying to believe him. I’m trying to believe you. To believe in you like you believe in me.
Softball tryouts are soon and I’m super scared. I might erase this part of the letter later. Because even though you guys always say it’s brave to be scared and do something anyway, I still don’t like being scared. Part of me doesn’t want to try out at all.
Does that make me the opposite of brave?
I’m glad I can write to you now. Sometimes I imagine you talking to me when I have questions about stuff. Like how to cook scrambled eggs. (Dad always burns them.) Or where my stationery is. (I’m sorry this letter is on boring old paper. I hope it looks nice enough for you.) Do you ever imagine my voice? Are you forgetting it at all? (I wish I could include a recording of my voice. Except I always sound weird in recordings.)
I do know that you wouldn’t forget me. It’s a scary thought, though, because sometimes it felt like you forgot me and Dad. Like drinking was more important than us.
I shouldn’t have written that. I should cross that out, too. Dad said this letter should be happy, but I’ve filled it with stuff that’s going to stress you out. I want to tell you the truth, though. I want you to know how I feel so we can fix it.
I haven’t been telling the truth to other people. Am I supposed to tell them where you are? Is this a forever secret?
I have a lot of questions, Mommy. I guess my biggest ones are: What do I do now? What happens when you come home? When can I see you? Should I see you?
Those are a lot of big questions.
I wonder if you’re just as confused as me.
I love you,
Veronica
I wrote it.
I mailed it.
Then I totally freaked out.