Dear Nikki,
The guilty ones are always the most silent.
The guilty ones. What an interesting choice of words. Guilt. You know what guilt is. You feel it all the time. It is a twist in your heart. It is a nagging feeling of being incomplete and unrepairable. It is a strain of rigid emotions that terrorize your tear ducts until the heart in your chest beats a mile a minute. You feel it for things that were out of your control. You feel it for things you were never responsible for. You feel it for things that you can never change. You feel it for your past. You feel it for your family. You feel it for Jack. You feel it for your memories. Is that why this is so hard for you to read? You are guilty. You are guilty of irrationalities. You are so irrational, Nikki. So irrational to think that any of the previous memories were your fault. So irrational to think you could have changed what happened in the past. So irrational to never let them go. What will it take to make you stop feeling so guilty, Nikki? You carry guilt in all of these memories. You feel guilt that you never spoke up about your abusers. You feel guilt that no one believed you. You feel guilt that your brother and aunt were heroin addicts and that you could not convince them to make their lives better. You feel guilt that you could not protect your mother from your scavenging family. You feel guilt that you could not be by her side every second of every day. You feel guilt that you made a promise to her that you could not keep. You feel guilt that Jack is nowhere to be found. You feel guilt for everything that you never did. You feel guilt for everything that you were not responsible for.
What did you really do? You suffered from the hand of an abuser at a young age. You took care of your family and held your aunt's hand until the ambulance arrived. You stood by your mother every chance you could. You took care of her and put her well-being above everything else. You cared for a dog with everything you had. You tried. You tried, Nikki. In every instance, you tried. So, why in the hell are you guilty? Why would you be guilty for trying, but remain to try to this very day? Only you, of course. You try so hard every day. Every day, even in the present, you have tried your very best. I am surprised so much guilt still lurks inside of you. I would like to think you would be proud, rather than guilty. Perhaps, feeling proud, would make you feel even more guilty? Who knows, I am just the one who writes the letter.
I know I sound harsh at times, but it is only tough love. I merely want you to understand the things that you have felt for so long. You need to know the reality behind your memories and you need to be face to face with everything you have repressed over the course of seventeen years. Do not be stuck in the same loop, but instead, run full speed towards the future with the same passion and dedication that has repeatedly emerged from particular memories. I promise you, I do not hate you. I love you more than anyone in this world. I care for your well-being, the same way I care for my own. Paradox? Maybe.
Remember when I did not love you? When your life seemed pointless, worthless, and lacked tremendous value? No, you should not. You should not remember this because this memory is mine, not yours. I have learned from my mistakes and realized you are worth more to me than all the stars. Tenth-grade year, I saw you collapsing. You were so tired of living. All you did was simply exist and I could not stand the lack of determination that speckled in your eyes. I was cruel to you. I did not understand the turmoil that had you drowning and gasping for air. You were losing yourself, while at the same time relying on me to help find you. My only response was a refusal. I was not there for you when you needed me most. How could I be there for someone who was so weak and frail? Someone who could barely get themselves out of bed?
It was tenth grade year. Everyone was screaming. Everyone. Your mother offered some relief , but even she was irritated with the day. You were fragile, your ears had heard so much. You did not want to hear anything. You did not want to hear anything ever again. You wanted everything to stop and I was supposed to be there to tell you to keep going. I was not there. I left you. I left you and let you scavenge for yourself as you choked down thirty-seven white-coated hells that the vox populi know as “aspirins.” You stared at yourself in the mirror as you hated every moment you had ever experienced. You did not want to live in this world anymore. You wanted to give up and you finally gained the courage to do so. You laid down and restlessly kicked your legs out from under the Mickey Mouse comforter. Sleeping is hard when you think you will not wake up. Suddenly, you realize what being awake really feels like. Suddenly, you realize how salty the tears taste. Suddenly, you realize how small and how infinite things really are. It was Virginia Woolf who once said, “when you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?” Consider the stars, Nikki. Account for every individual star that leads you down a new path. Account for every individual star that promises to shine the way to a long waited repair. The stars speak for millions. Let them speak for you. Do you remember crying because your stomach was twisting and turning? Do you remember the sickening feeling you felt in your gut when you realized our last moments were going to be in tears? Our last moments. I am frightfully pleased that we have the time we do now. I am grateful I still have you to talk to.
How was I so naive? How was I so selfish? This whole time I have criticized you, while I was the one who watched you swallow your last cry for someone to save you. Who am I to criticize? Who am I to tell how to live and who you really are? I only surrender to you a plea for forgiveness, a plight for understanding. I hope you understand that I, too, was lost at some point. I hope you can move on because I have trouble doing the same. I see potential in you and I want you to become everything you have ever dreamed. I know I was not there, but I am here now. I am here to reconcile for everything I did not do. I am here to love you and care for you. I am here to guide you to a happier ending. I will not come that close to failing you ever again. We have time on our side this time.
Want to discuss time? Time is a “fun” concept. Who knows, maybe it will lead into another memory? We still have two thousand, one hundred and sixty-one words to play with, so, anything can happen. Here is a question that should provide with some words to kill: does the present truly exist? It seems that more I keep thinking and the more I do, the more I think it is not existent. Every second that passes exists as the past. Seconds have milliseconds and every millisecond has an even smaller unit of time. It is a never ending cycle where every unit has an even smaller unit, and an even smaller unit within the original smaller unit. It is no wonder I have a hard time convincing myself that the present exists. I mean, we can not really live in it. Throughout all of this, it seems we have lived more in the past than we ever have in the present. The present is simply too fast. Every time I add another word to this letter, that previous word is past. We look to the future without realizing we are currently living it. Every action, decision, conversation that we take and have directly correlated to future events. We are yesterday’s future. It takes a considerable amount of time to realize that you are even in the present. It takes time to remember and reminisce. Hell, it took me five days to write this letter.
Our idea of time seems to be just manifestations of things we can not properly define, so we place a label on it. Is that not the most fantastically, frightening thing to have thought of?
What is to say about our own existence? We are constantly remembering a certain time period, styles, and advancements within our culture and society. It is not often we remember a particular individual unless an event is to correlate with their life. Although we know their life story and important events, do we actually know their life story? There is more to a life than what they did. In order to account properly for a life, you must explore the idea that they had a very intricate life of their very own. They are compiled of intense thoughts and wondrous complexities. We do not remember the center part of a human being, that center part being their mind. This is frightening to both you and I.
In ten years, someone might remember your name, see your name somewhere, or see a picture of you in a newspaper (specifically, the Circleville Herald), but will they account for you. The true you. The you that wanted to be discovered? To be told? To become a story? They will not know the cracks you stepped on in the pavement, they will not know what chair you preferred when at a dinner party, they will not know how your mind worked. They will not know you. You will only exist as an idea, a figment of someone who used to be existing.
I’ll be honest, the previous memory was relatively short. Just like the moment, the retell will be abrupt. That is the thing about these memories. At the time they were being made, it was as if they happened in a matter of seconds. The reality of writing about them is that you get to see each detail that played a significant role. It is almost therapeutic to know that life does not fly by, it is more of a flutter. Correction: the past is a flutter. The only reason we have this idea that life passes by quickly is because we tend to leave out the details. We fail to take into consideration everything that happens. Our minds wander, we panic, and we do not consider how much time we really have. Is that what this memoir is for? For us to account for the details? The details we never accounted for? The details we never realized were so vital to the event we were remembering? Tricky. I am starting to believe there is more to these letters than what I previously considered.
In all honesty, we have a lot of time. We may not have a present, but I promise, you and I, we have a future. A future that will be worth remembering, even if it is only me that remembers you. We have the future to relish in the memories that we create every second of every day. It seems we have all the time in the world. We just do not realize it until we have wasted nearly all of it. I hope you realize it before it goes to waste. You have the greatest potential to have time do your bidding. Take time by the reigns and realize you can do anything, be anything, and become something noteworthy and outstanding in all renderings. I promise, you can do it. You can do it because I have seen you do many things, so, I hardly doubt time will be of any inconvenience to you.
Now I will say, inconveniences tend to come down on you pretty hard. It is almost ironic. Although the definition of irony is debated too often. I would hate to offend someone by using it incorrectly. Remember when people were so heated by the improper use of irony in Alanis Morissette's song “Ironic?” I would rather avoid those people from jamming their obvious level of offense down my throat. Besides, I am pretty sure I used it wrong anyway. This could probably be better left alone by deleting this whole paragraph, but where is the honesty in that? Perhaps, I should have used the word coincidental instead.
On a more serious note, because it seems I have drifted far from the topic of remembering your life, let us discuss some of the other memories we have on our serious of unfortunate events. If you did not get it, that was a Lemony Snicket reference, sometimes I am witty. I can already tell, you have livened up since I first talked to you. I can already see your growth. You read this with a smile, rather than contempt. You currently read this with a sense of happiness and belonging, rather than shame and apprehensiveness. Although you are eager for the complimentary close, part of you wants to continue our in-depth discussion on the life you have lived. I can not wait to see you with laughter lines, when the years of happiness you have endured are physically visible. That is a day I am eager for.
Are we not all eager for something? Yearning for something spectacular to happen? Wishing for one thing that will make us joyful beyond all belief? For us, that something is laughter lines, Nikki. One day you will be at a place where you can recollect these memories as a subtle bump in the road. We will get there. We will get there in time, Nikki. Just a little time is all we need.
Until next time,
Au revoir!
