For as long as I could remember, I had always had the habit of writing down my thoughts rather than speaking them out.
As a child, I remember writing letters to my father rather than approaching him with whatever was on my mind.
Later on, I had done the same thing during the early years of my relationship with Chris; whenever we had an argument, I would write him a letter about how I felt, and give it to him the next day when he was sober.
I had only stopped when I finally came to the realisation that my letters were not making a difference, and that he would never change – drunk or sober.
In the more recent past, because of our different circumstances, a large part of my communication with Greg had been written, though in our case, it had been electronic rather than with pen and paper.
The bottom line was that throughout my life, every time I had felt strongly about something, I had poured out my feelings by writing them down, usually in the form of a letter to the source of my pain.
Today was no different, my emotions were shattered, and I needed to write down my feelings before they drove me insane, and so I wrote.
“My darling C.G, where do I begin? What do I say? What do I do? Your aunt and grandma came, and grandpa is coming tomorrow; why didn’t you wait for them? Why couldn’t you stay?
What am I going to do without you? How am I supposed to go on? You were always the strong one; did you know that, baby? That you were stronger than me? What’s mummy going to do without her little man?
I know I have to let you go, I just don’t know how; I don’t want to say bye to you!
Sleep well, baby; mummy will miss you forever.”
I had just completed my letter, and was lost in thought about C.G with silent tears trickling down my cheeks, when I was startled out of my reverie by his doctor sitting down beside me.
“Hey,” he greeted me quietly.
“Hi; I didn’t hear you come up,” I answered, hurriedly wiping away my tears. “Did they send you to look for me?”
“No, I saw you from my office window – it looked like you were writing something, and I was curious; so, I finished with my patient and came to investigate.”
I still had the letter on my laps, and handed over the notebook.
“It’s a letter to C.G,” I explained.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized, flustered, as he tried to hand back the notepad. My response clearly was the last thing he had expected.
“It’s alright; I was done with it anyway; so, you aren’t interrupting. You can read it.”
“Are you sure? Isn’t it private?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes, but you have my permission to; so, go ahead,” I urged.
“Alright,” he finally gave in hesitantly, then turned his attention to the letter.
I don’t know why I wanted him to read it; it was a deeply personal letter and I would not have allowed anyone else to, but for some odd reason, I wanted him to know how I felt, for I sensed he would understand.
He read it in silence to the end, then passed it back.
“It’s going to be alright, Stephanie. I know it doesn’t seem that way now, but trust me, one day it will. I’m glad you wrote that letter, and please keep writing them - it’s healthy.”
“I needed to; everything is just going crazy! Looks like my family and Chris are going to fight over who gets C.G, and I don’t know what to do,” I moaned.
“What exactly are they saying?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“Chris wants to take him to his place tonight, and my dad wants to pick him up tomorrow and take him to his place, because Chris and I aren’t married, and that’s ‘culture’,” I stressed the last word irritably.
“And what do you want?”
“To stay with him,” I answered simply.