Dear Life(18)

Oh, but sure, Petey Pedophile next door gets to live on and eat Rice-a-Roni on a daily basis while playing with his N64 because he can’t seem to afford anything else.

Yup, thanks, Life, you sure know how to be fair. Thumbs up, pat on the back . . . thanks.

Sincerely,

Hollyn



Dear Life,

Gosh, I’ve never written a letter to you before, so I might be a little awkward at first. Um, in case you didn’t know, I’m Daisy. Grams raised me and taught me everything I know. Ask me anything about musicals, go ahead, I dare ya. I will blow your mind with my knowledge. But when it comes to being social and “hip,” oh gosh, I’m so out of it.

I know nothing when it comes to today’s life. Computers, cell phones, Panera, trampoline gyms . . . I had no clue any of this existed. There is so much out there that I’ve never experienced and it makes me sad.

I’m twenty-one. I’ve never had a drink, I’ve never really had a friend besides Grams, and I’ve never known what it’s like to hold a man’s hand.

I’m a hermit, a lost soul in a sea of modernized civilization.

Life, you’ve sheltered me and I’ve had enough. I want to be a part of the world today. I will be a part of the world today. Goodbye past, hello future!

Kind regards,

Daisy



Dear Life,

Not much to say, not much to feel, not much to do.

I’m an empty fucking vessel right now. No heart, no soul, no legs to stand on.

You gave me a daughter, a DAUGHTER. A little girl full of so much love that it makes my heart bleed just thinking of her hand that so briefly wrapped around my finger.

But I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t give her what she needs. I couldn’t be the parent she deserves, so I gave her up. I let her go. I gifted my soul to two women, hoping and praying they take care of her.

I know they will. But, it cuts me deep . . . knowing I can’t be the one who kisses her goodnight, the one to brush her hair in the morning, or the one she clings to when she’s tired. I will never be that person. I will instead watch her from a distance, a mere observer rather than a participator.

Life, you gave me a daughter when I wasn’t fucking ready.

I wasn’t fucking ready.

Jace



Dear Life,

Fuck you.

Carter





Step Two: Let Go


JACE


Ten unread text messages burning a hole in my phone.

Ten messages with attached pictures.

Ten messages I have no intent on opening anytime soon.

But I can’t get myself to delete them either. Not when I so desperately want to look at them.

What kind of psychotic mental episode is that? I want to see the pictures but I refuse to look at them? Pretty sure Dear Life won’t be able to help me figure out my backward-thinking psychosis. I’m almost positive no one would be able to.

And yet, here I am, staring down at my phone, ten unread messages from June all containing pictures of Hope.

I kind of wish she’d stop sending them, that the agreement we finalized with the lawyer wasn’t so open, that I was forced to wonder more about Hope than actually be able to see her. I don’t deserve that privilege, even though I know she is in good hands.

“Hey, are you going to eat this?” Ethan asks from my kitchen, sniffing a pizza box he just pulled out of the fridge.

“No, have at it.”

Peeking in, he fists pumps the air. “No olives, that’s my man.” Taking a huge bite of cold pizza, he asks, “So how was your class the other night?”

“It wasn’t a class.”

“Okay . . . how was your thing the other night?”

“All right. Not really sure how it’s going to help me.”

With a mouthful, Ethan plops on the couch next to me, shifting the cushion up and down and asks, “Why do you think that?”

I shrug, not quite sure. I left the gathering the other night feeling lackluster, as if nothing changed. I knew going into it that nothing was going to immediately differ from what I’m doing now, but I thought maybe I would feel a little different after leaving. Maybe a little lighter, like the world wasn’t trying to bury me alive.

I didn’t feel anything.

Actually, that’s not true.

Driving home, after writing that letter, I felt angry, mad, pissed off at the world. At Life. I feel the same way even now, a few days later. Exposing myself like that, letting myself dive deep into my feelings, it wasn’t freeing. It was constraining, trapping me in a suffocating, self-imposed hell of a box that I can’t seem to find my way out of.

“Just don’t feel much different.”

Ethan scoffs. “You’re such a millennial.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Shoving another piece of pizza in his mouth, he leans back on the couch and assesses me, giving me the once-over. Pointing his half-eaten pizza at me, he says, “You’re all about instant gratification. Believe me, when it comes to the opposite sex, instant gratification is a train I want to be riding on, but when it comes to problems you might be facing, shit can’t just wash away that quickly. Especially the kind of trauma you’re going through.” Leaning forward, his face morphs into something sober, resolute. “Man, you gave up your baby.”