Dear Henry,

r Henry,

     We knew this was coming.

      It was building the way a hurricane does-swirling and churning beneath the surface before strategically causing disaster and tragedy in its wake.

       I want you to know it wasn't your fault, okay? It was never your fault. You loved me and you did everything you were supposed to.

       But sometimes love isn't enough.

       Let's try to find the root of the problem. The beginning of our, er, predicament.

       Parents are usually a deciding factor in teen suicides. Domestic violence. Divorce. Death. They can put a wedge between families, pushing them farther apart until they're miles away. But it wasn't what my family did. It was what they didn't do.

      Henry, if you're future daughter comes to you, keeling over from hunger and crying from a broken heart-if you're daughter comes to you with scars on her wrist and obvious pain in her eyes-do not ignore her. I thought it was common knowledge not to ignore an evidently unstable person, but I guess it's not until I stick a bullet in my brain that people notice I'm not okay.

     It usually comes to that.

     I'm sorry, was that too graphic for you? I don't want to be blunt, Henry, but if that's too much maybe you should stop reading for a bit.

      Where was I?

      Oh, yeah. Keeling over from hunger. Let's talk about that, shall we?!

        I was 13 when I first decided I was fat.

        I was 14 when I was first hospitalized.

        What is anorexia?

        In my house, it was referred to as "The A-Word."

         But a proper definition is, "the act of  denying oneself food, for fear of gaining weight. Eating disorder." Denying oneself food.

         I thought I hid it so well, Henry. I thought hiding behind fake smiles and "I already ate's" would fool anyone. But you noticed. Damnit, you noticed, and there's nothing I could do about it. When you came up to me after lunch one day, and asked why I never ate, I said; "Bug off, creep." And you laughed. And you said "Really, though. You're beautiful." And I blushed and rushed away from you.

       Hold on. My phone keeps ringing. I sent a message to my friend, Anna, who you will hear about later. It's maddening, Henry. How much they'll pretend to care, when they think it matters. They think they'll be the one to save me. I'm too far gone.

      Back to my reminiscent paragraph.

      When I started losing weight, really started losing it, I would obsess over it. I would try on clothes that I had outgrown and hoped I would fit. It was madness, tryimg to wear clothing I hadn't worn since I was in elementary school.

      Yet there you were, asking why you could see my ribs through my shirt, even though it was baggy. I remember feeling physically ill-not only because of my lack of food, and malnourishment, but because you noticed. I wanted to be alone and wallow in my own self-loathing.

       The thing about anorexia is you either beat it or you die trying.

        Anorexia itself didn't kill me. Anorexia factored in with a family who didn't give me shit and "friends" who gave me less, as well as a father's gun between clenched teeth killed me.

       I keep forgetting to apologize.

       I'm sorry, Henry. I am so sorry.

       You were perfect.

        Before you start in on the whole, "no one is perfect, you're all beautiful" inspirational bullshit, listen to me. Perfection does exist. It is an opinion deep in everyone's mind. Perhaps perfection to you is a thigh gap and bones aching to be seen, but perfection to the person next to you could be the boy who breaks her heart each night. Somewhere in your heart or your head, an idea of perfection exists.

         My idea? Henry Griffin.

         Henry's named rolled off my tongue and bounced off the walls, resonating through high ceilings and low self-esteem before traveling back to my ears and lifting my lips into a crooked smile.

         Fantastic.

         I only felt natural when you hugged me or held my hands when they were cold. I only smiled when your lips were pressed to mine. You were such a good actor. The way you spouted "I love you," the way you made me believe it.

         Silly girl. Big mistake.

         Bleary eyed, veil of cigarette smoke, a throbby headache. I'd been broken up with before, yeah, but for some reason this ailed me more. And every damn time I looked in your eyes-i fell in love again.

        And that's sad. It really is.

        Give me a moment.

        They say a pair of parallel lines will remain side by side, infinitely and forever. Completely aware that the other is next to themselves, but never intersecting. And people thinks that's sad. But perpendicular lines will gradually become closer and closer before crossing once and never seeing each other again.

       I think that's more than sad. Thats *real*.

       Henry, I'm not sure if we loved with a love that was more than love or whatever people say, but I did love you. However one sided our relationship might've been,  I loved you with all my heart.

        But maybe love isn't enough.

        Remember Anna? I'm sure you do. I'm sure she's with you right now.

         Anna was always the girl at the party that everyone wanted. Girls wanted to be her, guys wanted to be with her. I went to a party one night with my boyfriend, Henry. I left that same party with my best friend, Anna. In the arms of my former boyfriend, Henry.

        It was sad. My makeup looked so nice that night. And you ruined it.

       This letter sounds like a girl killing herself over a boy.

        This is a letter about a girl killing herself over herself.

         So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wasn't enough and I'm sorry I don't give myself the chance to be enough.

         They say you know when its your time to go.  I suppose suicide is when people know too soon. 

         As I'm writing with my left hand I have my fathers gun in my right. I suppose suicide with his gun is traditional in my family.

        I would like to tell you that I am trembling. I would like to inform you I am sobbing. I would like to say that I am sad and scared.

       Death does not scare me. Living with this constant weight scares me. And with all these things in this letter I found sad, this one wins.

         I don't feel scared. I don't feel sad. I feel the rising action of relief.

         I hope I don't leave a mess. I mean that metaphorically as well as literally.

        Sincerely yours, for however short of a time,

                Abriella