I’d been seeing Dr. West for six months, crying in her office about you, about your dad, about my mom, about all the things that would never be, could never be, when she suggested I start a journal. I could write it to someone I missed—maybe to my mother, she suggested—and tell my story, get everything out, get it all down, how I felt, what I thought, and in doing so, I could figure out a way to keep my whole life moving forward. I bought a notebook thinking I would write to my mom, but instead, once I sat down, I started writing to you. I’m still not sure why. But it has helped. It really has.
Though I guess this is as much for me as it is for anyone. In some ways, I’ve been writing to myself, telling myself my story, looking at the details and making sense of them through a lens of distance and time. That probably was Dr. West’s intent all along.
Now I only dream about your father sometimes, instead of every night. And I dream about you even less. I cringe to write that, but it’s true. I didn’t think I’d feel guilty for healing. But I guess, in some ways, I do.