Dear Nikki,

It's been a while since we have spoken so formally. It looks like the tables have turned, aren't you supposed to be the writer in this relationship? You used to write all the time, but I guess lives do get busy. You write a little, but you're still distant. Each word is abandoned the moment you release it onto the blank page. You used to critique every word ahead of you. You cared for them, you could never leave them. You shouldn't worry. You'll write something and I know it will be just as passionate as when you first began your journey into the writing field. I know this because I found something. I figured something out.

I figured out why all of your attempts to write something noteworthy have been a tiring struggle. It turns out, you are lacking the one thing that made your previous writings a point of interest.

Remember when you decided you wanted to create a book of poetry? You wanted to write something small and meaningful. The idea was to create a poem for each of your friends that showed who they really were. When you wrote these poems for your friends you only had one rule: they needed to tell you everything. They needed to be raw, honest, and vulnerable. You wanted them to explain how the entrails of their mind worked, how they viewed themselves, what demons lurked behind closed doors, why they cried, why they smiled, why they were here, and what happened during their existence. You wanted everything that they would never tell another soul. You wanted honesty.

During this process, you created one of your best poems. It was called The Advanced Biologist, written for William Staten. Remember how long it took you to write? When you agreed to write him a poem and he agreed to tell you everything, you never realized what would come from it. He told you everything. Yes, he did a bit of rambling, but his truth was beautiful. His ultimate truth was enough to create something amazing. William became the epitome of honesty. You worked for three weeks, trying to piece together his honesty into something he could be proud of. After all, he had such an intricate way of thinking and his complexities were intense. I remember when you first read his honesty, you were so overwhelmed. You could not believe he was made of so much stardust while he emanated a persona of content. You did not want to disappoint him, as you endlessly worked on the most honest piece of writing you have ever compiled.

You only completed two poems, but the finished products were nothing short of phenomenal. Mostly because you are phenomenal, or at least in my eyes you are. Everything you have overcome, everything you have been through, every setback that you turned into an opportunity; how could you think of yourself as anything less? I am proud of you, to say the least.

I guess you are wondering where my point in all of this was. You see, after writing, rewriting, and re-rewriting the opening to this letter, I figured out exactly what you were missing.

Honesty.

You began by writing a memoir and then after a significant of time had passed you decided to bring it to life in a new way. But, you couldn't, it was too draining. It is the most difficult task that you have ever tried to complete.You have always felt exploited, vulnerable, and ashamed of your past. How could you explain to normal human beings everything that has happened? How could you admit it to yourself? Hell, you did not want to. Those memories and events were repressed for so long and you did not want them to emerge from that shallow residence inside of you. You wanted them gone and you certainly did not want to share them. They were your demons and now you were told to let them escape and dance maliciously across the paper. You had to combine your escape from reality with the acceptance of reality, you had to combine your writing with your past. You panicked, for once, you actually panicked for a writing assignment. Thousands of words all about you. Thousands of words all about your memories, the same memories you tried so hard to forget. You cried once, you cried while trying to think of ideas. Each time you added a new memory to your list, you cried harder. You cried so hard that breathing became difficult and talking was out of the question. You simply could not handle the acceptance of your reality. You could not handle that such things had actually occurred in such a young girl's life. Surely, the content could easily reach thousands of characters, but mentally you were not prepared to talk. You were not prepared to talk about the hard stuff, the things you promised to never tell. You could not handle breaking a promise. Every attempt you surrendered was dry, distant, and vague. You lacked an emotional attachment to your memoir. Every time you wrote, it was as if you were excluding yourself from your own life story. You could not handle it, or at least that was your initial response.

At one point you finally gave up. You finally gave in to your past and decided your life was better left unread. It was better for the sake of your mental stability if your worries were shielded by your only defense of repression. Then again, this assignment could help you recover. Could you really surrender the possibility of recovery because your demons wanted to hide? Of course not, and I would not expect anything less from you.

So, here I am writing to you. Writing in hopes that you can move on and be content with your past, instead of hiding away from it. Writing in hopes that I never have to see you cry over the following events again. After all, I hate to see you cry.

So, here are my letters to you. Letters that will help you grieve and pick up the pieces that have shattered on the sidewalk and forced you into the confining shackles of shoes to protect the skin . Don't be scared, figurative glass can't really cut you, take off your shoes and rest for a little while. We have a lot of material to cover.

Until next time,

Au Revoir!