August 19th
Dear Mom,
I don't know if I can do this.
I'm sitting in my car at the Nebraska/Colorado line, staring at the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign, and wishing I was anywhere else.
I love Colorado. It has always been home for me.
But Dad is here. Can I really drive through the state where he is and not say hi? If I do go and see him is he going to keep me from continuing this trip?
I want to skirt around the edge, drive through Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas to reach New Mexico, but that would be the coward's way out, and I refuse.
I'm just not sure I can do this. Face this great awe-inspiring state with the mountains that fill my heart with so much aching sadness, and not break apart on the peaks.
I know this letter is just a chance for me to procrastinate crossing the state line, but here's the thing.
If I enter the state of Colorado and don't talk to Dad or let him know I'm here, it's the first conscious decision I've made to leave him out of my life.
When I left it was almost a split second decision. I ran because I couldn't take another moment of him keeping an eye on me, or of waiting for you to call or text me. I couldn't handle the concerned glances of everyone at the memorial service wanting to make sure I wasn't going to spiral over the edge.
It sent me right over the edge, and I'm still not sure why. I just had to get away, and the map we'd poured over for so long was lying on the desk in my room.
It seemed like the only option in that moment, and even now I can't imagine laying it back down and backing away toward the abyss that was my life without you. When I go back I know I'll have to face everything I left.
This grief I'm barely coping with now is nothing compared to what I would be facing at home. This is an active grief, choosing to stare into the void your death has left in my life. If I'd stayed I would have sunk, and even with Dad there, I don't think anything would have saved me.
The idea of going home right now fills me with a panic.
If I've kicked in the lid of my coffin six feet under and begun the arduous process of tamping down the earth so I can climb out, going home would cause the earth above me to crumble down onto me, suffocating any chance of escape.
Or maybe I'm being dramatic again and it would be the healthiest thing for me to go home and face the aching void.
I don't think I'm that brave. I am a selfish being and in the middle of all this that has become my life, I choose to be selfish.
I'm afraid, and that's a new feeling. It wasn't too long ago that death seemed like a friendly specter waiting to help me see you again. But now, with the idea of home strong in my mind, I'm beginning to realize the truth.
If I'd stayed I would not have been able to live. I am weak and my emotions have overtaken my mind in a way I'm not proud of. But running was a better option than fading into nothing.
Please, if there's any part of you that can hear what I put in these letters, any part of you that wants to help your willful grieving daughter; send me courage. Send me hope that someday I will be able to smile with true joy and watch a sunset without the aching pressure in my chest reminding me I'm alone.
I am so alone, and that will be true wherever I am and whoever I'm with. Please help me.
I love you,
Bo.
This letter, with its soul deep plea feels different than the rest. I know Mom can't hear me. I know she'll never hear me again, but there's something about asking for help. The realization that help is even an option opens up a vista of possibility. At least, I think it's possibility.
Maybe it's just that if I can get up the courage to ask help from Mom, then maybe soon I can look in the eyes of a human being who might have words of wisdom to bring me out of the grief and away from the edge of the void.
Again, there’s nothing quite like drama to really get down to the brass tacks of how I’m feeling.
I don’t even care that I’m being dramatic. It’s not like anyone ever needs to know, and sometimes it’s just a chance to shout into the void knowing that no one but me can hear the intensity of longing I feel for the mother I thought I’d have so much longer.
And now, sitting in my car, staring at the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign, it hits me.
I need to finish this journey. I have to follow through on what started as a mad dash.
But that doesn’t mean I want more regrets down the road. Dad deserves to at least have the chance to see me.
I’ll ask him if he’s willing to meet me in the mountains. Maybe Silverthorne or Kremmling. In neutral territory, where neither of us will say the things that shouldn't be said.
The things neither of us are saying anyway.
We'll see what he decides. This way I'll know once and for all if he's decided I'm more trouble than I'm worth. And for now I'll cross the border, blasting my music as loud as possible to avoid the emotions that want to take me over.