Letters to My Father (1.14.17)

Dear Dad,

I trusted someone. I really trusted someone and they broke it. 

“You’re only broken if you choose to be,” You said to me after my first heartache.

“I know, I know,” I say to you out loud in the heavy darkness of the guestroom. I can’t sleep in my room. I can’t spend more than two minutes in there.

“Get out of your head. Stop replaying that part. Stop thinking about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let this break you,” You say.

But it has.

“What if I can’t do it on my own?” I ask you. 

No reply.

They come over, one after the other, in the afternoon when the sun is setting just below the treetops. The living room is painted pink by the sunset. That used to make me smile.

They tell me they can’t see beyond the wall I’ve put up. They say when they search my eyes for recognition they can see I’m inhabiting some other world.

I remember this world. I remember it too well.

Their arms are like anchors around my body trying to pull me out of the heaviness of my heart.

“I can’t do it,” I say to myself.

I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine I was never heartbroken. I imagine I don’t know what I know now.

I imagine I am free.

My throat feels tight. My eyes are sore from being washed out over and over again.

I dare a breath. It’s small but it’s there.

“You can do this,” You say.

I sit up and I feel protected. I feel you here with me.

I can sleep again.

“Thank you. Thank you,” I say. 

And I sleep. 

Written: 1.14.17