𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 - A Dear Evan Hansen Fanfiction

Chapter Twelve - Letters

The big C.

It's the last word you want to hear come out of a doctor's mouth. The last word you want to describe yourself with.

As far as I know, nobody likes the word. Which would make sense, seeing as how big of a deal it is to hear. Even for people who've never thought twice about it, hearing it come from the mouth of someone important to you, it.. It does something to you. Breaks your heart into as many pieces as there are cells in the body. Causes your stomach to rip and tear and gurgle as if there was an unknown, inhuman beast incubating inside. It makes you want to vomit. Wretch. Gag. Heave. But not from disgust. From fear. Fear of that word taking away what's most important to you.

And I thought my anxiety was bad before all of this. I thought that things could not get any worse. I attempted suicide in my junior year of highschool. I began cutting shortly afterward. I quit cutting. I finally got my hands on a therapist that listened to me, that I could trust with my words. But there were some things that couldn't be solved.

She couldn't solve how my depression waves took over my body. As much as she tried to come up with solutions, the waves kept coming and going. Not like peaceful tides on a coastal beach. Like a tsunami. One huge wave that crushed the lives of cities that required weeks, maybe months of rebuilding to come back to life. Only for another tsunami to hit, and destroy all of that hard work the city had accomplished to prevent another wave. All gone to waste.

She couldn't solve how I tore open my lips, fingernails, and the inside of my cheeks open. Candy, gum, fidgets, nothing could keep my brain occupied, nothing could save me from myself.

She claims it's a form of self harm. I disagree. I don't like the pain that I give myself when I bite and chew. But I can't stop. I don't do it for the pain, I don't know why I do it in the first place. Ever since I was a kid, I'd catch myself ripping open the inside of my cheek, and cringing at the iron, metal taste of that sacred red liquid in my mouth. No slap on the wrist or punishment would stop me. It's subconscious now.

There are some things that even therapists can't prevent. Most things, even mental hospitals or professional psychologists, are unable to succeed.

I should probably stop talking about me.

This letter isn't about me.

I helped Connor with as much as I could when he found out he had cancer. Lung cancer, to be specific. His addicting smoking habits are to blame, not him. Everyone knows that once you start, it becomes virtually impossible to quit.

As much as I begged, he wouldn't stop. But I'll never blame him. It's difficult. It was probably scary, thinking about the symptoms he'd develop if he tried quitting. The pain might have scared him off, and kept the cigarettes in his mouth. It was his drug, metaphorically and literally. But it was also his antidote. His antidote to the pain, each cigarette tasted better than the last, and it was because it was keeping him from withdrawal. Just as each breath we take resets the timer for our suffocation.

After everything was set up for later appointments and chemo for Connor, I took him home. He was quiet, and hadn't spoken a word since we arrived at the hospital in the first place. Yet, after a couple of quiet days, he spoke the first words he whispered under his raspy, shaky breath.

I'm sorry.

I still don't entirely understand why he apologized. I promised he had nothing to apologize for. I promised that none of this was his fault.

I like to think the journey was worth it. All the money I spent on Chemotherapy for Connor. I think it was worth it. He was trying, and that's all that mattered.