The Silent Letters

The First One

Dear ,

You and I used to be best friends, remember that?

Remember that fort we built ten years ago? The one that had hallways between our "rooms", you had your toy car room and I had a room with a singular battery-operated lamp that I could use to read. Remember those races we used to have in our seemingly monstrous fake cars? Remember when we had paper airplane contests to see which one could go the furthest? Remember when we made phones out of plastic cups and strings so we could speak from across the room? Remember when we would spend hours talking about the random (and mostly useless) things we had learned? Do you remember all of that? Because lately, it really doesn't seem like it.

The first time I felt scared of you was eleven years ago when you threw the pair of scissors at my back. I was five, you were seven, and you got so mad at me that when my back was turned, you threw scissors at me. Naturally, I started crying instantly. But I don't really think it was because of the physical pain, because the wound wasn't that deep. No, all of those tears came from the complete and utter shock that someone I loved and trusted so much could hurt me when my back was turned. You had, quite literally, stabbed me in the back. Pain was a new concept for me back then, you were my first teacher.

When you started hating Dad I didn't understand. I was Daddy's little girl, what could possibly make you hate him? To this day, I still don't understand, but we barely talk anymore so I probably won't ever know. But I think the hate you hold for him drove us apart the most.

You stopped switching back and forth between the two houses, I started only seeing you half of the time. You started yelling at him when he wasn't there, cursing at him, calling him horrible things, questioning my love for him. Of course I fought back, did you expect me not to? He is my father, I love him, I'm loyal to him; and you're trying to make me feel guilty about it. And then what do you do after you just spent all of your time at Mom's house hating on Dad? You go over to Dad's house and ask for the most expensive things that you've ever seen. Do you know how much anger courses through me when I see you do that? Do you know how much I want to scream at you? How much I want to grab my Dad by the shoulders and tell him all the mean things you've been saying behind his back? But I can't do that, and you know it. If I do that it'll hurt Dad because he is so sensitive and if he knew what you really felt, he'd be destroyed; and I'll have been the one to do it. If I tell him, he'll stop paying for the private school you "need," which will hurt Mom financially and cause her to be more stressed than she already is. So here I am, quietly fuming at you every time you say Dad's given name, because apparently you disowned him as a parent and don't call him "Dad" anymore.

Two years ago, when you were first diagnosed with depression, I didn't really know what to think of it. I didn't think that someone so close to me was capable of having such a powerful illness. You spent a full year barely coming out of the basement, and when you did, it was with a blanket over your head because you said the world was too bright. Did you know that I cried every morning on the bus as I rode to school? I stared out of the window so happy to wake up into a world with you still breathing, and so scared that I could come home to find you doing the opposite.

Do you know how much those three suicide attempts destroyed me? I was scared, no terrified, that I would wake up in the middle of the night to Mom screaming because you had finally accomplished your wish. I don't blame you for getting depressed, that's not what I'm trying to say. It's just that you think nothing you say or do can have a negative impact on anyone. Will you please open your eyes? Just for a moment, to see what it is like in someone else's shoes?

I couldn't even talk to anyone about the weight that was making it so hard to breathe; my fear of losing someone who didn't even seem to love me, or even remotely like me, anymore. You want to know why I couldn't get any help? Because Mom didn't want anyone to know about your condition, she told me it wasn't their "business." Who was I supposed to talk to? Who am I supposed to talk to?

Do you remember those nights when you became overrun with inexplicable anger? When you would walk around slamming doors and knocking things over, telling all of us we were worthless, threatening to beat me up when I was sitting in the seat you wanted? No, it wasn't a joke. It wasn't like the teasing it used to be. Remember that time you called Mom while she and I were at the pool, yelling at her to get all of the sharp objects out of the house, along with all of the alcohol?

You're the reason I started sleeping with a baseball bat. I told everyone it was because of my new obsession with Criminal Minds, that was a lie. The bat was and still is because of you. Some nights, I even locked my door. I was so utterly scared that you would bust into my room and hurt me. Is that normal?

Congratulations, you taught me fear as well as pain.

You've mostly overcome your depression now. At least I see you upstairs, and you've apparently started trying in school again. Mom is so proud of you. Do you know that you're her favorite? That you can't do anything wrong in her eyes, that even if you committed homicide I'm sure she would still love you more than anyone else? Do you know that if I even try talking about the problems I'm having in my life to Mom she tells me it can't possibly be worse than what you've gone through? Am I not allowed to feel anything because of you?

I don't understand why you have to come back into my life and feel the need to tear me down. When Grandpa told me he thought it was great how many books I love to read, you said that books simply don't have enough information in them and aren't intelligent enough for you. You like to read articles, they're way more factual, and way better than books. When Mom talked about my straight A's in my Honors and AP classes you said I could only get those because I was book smart. But I was only book smart because I studied so much. How do you know how much I may or may not study? Since when do you even pay attention enough to know how old I am? You make me feel dumb, like I'm a completely useless fly that people squish on their wall with their old shoe. Every time someone tells me they think I'm intelligent, or when my teacher's compliment me, I'm surprised. Completely and utterly shocked. Because everyday, I remember how you told me I have no common sense, that I won't get anywhere in life.

Why do you walk around the house like you own the place? Why do you feel the need to boss me around? To boss Mom around? Do you think the world revolves around you when you leave me outside standing in the cold as you walk as slowly as you can outside the door? Do you think it's funny when you purposely drive half a mile past the place I'm meeting my friends so I have to walk all the way back in the dark? Do you even notice the long walks I take in below freezing temperature, just to escape the house?

I'm trying. I'm trying so hard these days to try and build our relationship back again. Do you see it? Do you see me watching the movies with you so I can have something to talk to you about? Do you listen to the questions I ask about how your day was? Do you even think about accepting the lunch invitation before you say no?

I forgive people easily, it's my weakness. But you've given me no reason to forgive anything.

And all I want is that reason.

One reason.

Is that too much to ask?