The Letter

The following was written for creative writing class in March 2011...

Dear Mike:

I feel that I owe you a very serious apology. For two weeks I have put off writing this letter because I haven’t wanted to think about what writing it actually means. I also haven’t wanted to think about the fact that once it’s finished, there is nowhere to send it. My words will sit in a document in my hard drive on my computer – unread and untouched – for days, months, possibly years. This letter won’t ever be printed, won’t ever be shared, and it will be a painful reminder of the past until I finally decide to delete it forever.

So why am I writing it at all? I’m sure you must be curious. It seems silly when I actually stop and think about what I’m doing. But like I said, I owe you an apology. Angela told me that sometimes she writes letters to people she has hurt or betrayed. She doesn’t mail them, but putting her indiscretions down on paper apparently allows her to start the healing process. At least that’s what she said. I usually don’t pay attention to her ideas, because a raging drug addict has a weird way of looking at the world, but this time I think she might have something.

And, you were a raging drug addict too, so you might just understand.

Before I begin to explain why I’m sorry, I want to remind you that things weren’t always bad between us. We were friends – great friends actually – before we started dating. I still remember the day we met. It was three weeks before grand opening at the store we both worked at. I was organizing boxes of nails on shelves in the hardware section and I had just dropped a box on my foot. They were heavy, and I remember screaming ‘sonofabitch’ at the top of my lungs as I jumped back in pain. I wasn’t looking at what was behind me, and I backed up right into you. I screamed again, this time in surprise, lost my balance, and we both went down in a heap of flailing limbs, scattered nails and clothing.

It was a hell of a first impression, and I’ll never forget it.

As the years progressed and we continued to become closer, I knew that I had feelings for you that were beyond platonic friendship. I never told you this – even when you asked, years later – but I think I always knew we would end up together. It’s strange, but sometimes I meet people in my life that I know are going to mean something. They just stick out, and I feel drawn to them. You were one of those people. I knew it the first time I looked at you. I just didn’t realize how much you would mean and how badly you would break my heart.

If we could go back, do you think it would have been better it we just left things alone?

For three years we were like ships passing in the night. I knew you were miserable with your girlfriend and you knew I was having problems with Trent, but we kept our distance from each other. I think we both knew that the second we let things escalate, that would be it. So we worked together, flirted, shared casual stories when we went for cigarette breaks, and waited. And waited.

I know I started it. I guess that’s the first thing I’m really apologizing for in this letter. I’m inquisitive by nature, and when our casual conversation began to transition into the realm of serious admission, I pushed you to tell me what I already knew. And I was right. Once we went there, we couldn’t go back.

I’m sure it’s weird for any person in a new relationship to have to help their partner move their personal effects out of a home they used to share with someone else. I won’t ever forget the look on her face as you shut the door on her for the last time. Nor will I forget the angry text messages she sent me later that night. I guess I was stealing her man away from her, but at that time, I didn’t care. All I could see was you, and nothing else mattered.

The struggle to get you a new apartment was a difficult one, but finally we found a small yet quaint basement bachelor suite on Corydon Avenue. It was the first time I had ever dated someone who had their own place, and I remember I hung curtains, organized your kitchen and painted your walls with childish excitement. You thought it was adorable. I thought you were adorable. Everything was perfect during the first few months in that apartment on Corydon Avenue. I mean it when I say that at that time there was no place else in the world I wanted to be.

I fell in love with you in that little basement apartment. We spent so many evenings hiding from the world, wrapped up in our own romance as if nothing else mattered. I remember turning off my cell phone as soon as I walked in the door and burying it deep inside my backpack. Nothing was more important than you. There was truly nowhere else I wanted to be.

You warned me ahead of time about your sister’s medical condition, but I always thought she seemed ‘normal’ whenever she came to visit. It broke my heart when you told me about how she almost died in a car accident when she was seventeen, and how she was thrown from the car and landed on a rock 30 feet away. She hit her head, did permanent damage, and won’t ever have a chance at a normal life. When she came to visit us, you always took care of her. She pretended she didn’t want you too, but I know she did.

Like any other realistic romance, our honeymoon period eventually ended and the admissions and back-stories started to be shared. My story was fairly simple and I didn’t have anything to hide. I was born in Winnipeg, raised in Vancouver, had relocated to Winnipeg and was living at home with my parents while I finished university. My number once vice was smoking – as was yours – and I was in a perpetual state of quitting. No, I didn’t have anything to hide, and I assumed you wouldn’t either. But when it was your turn to start talking, you hesitated. I pushed and prodded and convinced you that I didn’t care what had happened to you before we met.

But the truth of the situation was that once you started talking, I wished I had never asked.

Jail? Twice? Seriously, Mike. You didn’t think that would have been important to mention before I practically moved in with you? It wasn’t even a little infraction, either. It was a gigantic fucking drug charge, and you were caught with enough product to overdose an entire high school. I know I said I was alright with it when you told me, but inside my mind was screaming. How would I ever tell my parents that I was dating someone who had served time in Kingston Penitentiary? They would never, ever accept you.

So I promised to keep it a secret. At the time, I was so blinded by our relationship that I actually shrugged off this admission. I pretended to go about my business as if nothing had changed, and I didn’t bring it up again. Then, two weeks later, you had more you wanted to tell me. I had done so well with the last confession that you needed to tell me everything. I nodded and said I would listen. I should have known better.

The stealing and fighting you told me about wasn’t what broke my heart. It was the drug use. As hard as I tried to understand, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I had watched my friend Angela rapidly decline after high school when she discovered opiates, and I knew what a person could become when they allowed the drug to consume their judgement. There is nothing more disgusting than watching a person inject a needle between their toes because it’s the only place left on their body that’s still usable. I told you this. You agreed with me. You promised it would never happen again. You looked me in the eyes and told me you would never again use drugs.

If it hadn’t been for that damn doctor who prescribed you stupid morphine for your leg injury, I wouldn’t be writing this letter right now. I know you told him you had a problem with drug addiction in the past. He didn’t listen. That stupid, stupid man. I still want to walk into his office and punch him in the face as hard as I possibly can. If I had to pick one person to blame for the beginning of your end, it would be him. You tried so hard not to take the pills, but your injury got worse. If you didn’t take them, you wouldn’t be able to function. I understand that.

But I couldn’t help you when you let the drugs take over.

I returned from vacation and you had changed. Everything about you was different, and I could tell you were using regularly again. Initially, I pretended not to notice, and attempted to bring your life back into order. But my efforts were useless, and you were gone. When I looked into your eyes, they were empty. The person I fell in love with wasn’t there anymore. It broke my heart to do it – more than I could ever express in a letter – but I had to walk away. I couldn’t help you anymore, and I knew that eventually you would take me down with you.

I wish that I had told you this before, but I kept tabs on you for a year after we broke up. Even though we weren’t together anymore, I still cared about what happened to you. I heard that you went to rehab and straightened yourself out, and that made me so happy. Despite your problems you were a good person, and the world deserved to have you at your best. You got a new job, a new apartment, and even a new girlfriend. That also made me happy, because I had moved on too. I honestly believed that you were alright, and it was around November of last year that I stopped keeping track of you.

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have stopped. I am so sorry that when you really needed me, I wasn’t watching.

I got the call on a Friday afternoon while I was sitting at my desk at work. It was Jim, your best friend. He wanted to tell me the news himself. Jim remembered that I had tried everything to help you get away from drugs while we were still together, and he knew that I really had loved you. It was Jim who had kept me updated on your life for a year, and he kept it a secret from you just as I asked him to.

His name popped up on the caller ID and I instantly knew something was wrong. I quickly ran to the bathroom, and answered. In between a series of ragged sobs, he told me you were dead.

I dropped the phone. I started seeing spots and was afraid I would pass out. Sitting down on the floor, against the door, I picked up the phone again and asked for details. I needed to know everything. Jim didn’t know much and said he would call me back with information as soon as he found out. I’m still waiting for that call. But when your obituary was published, it told me everything I needed to know.

You died on Thursday, January 11, of a drug overdose. You were 30 years old. When you were discovered – and by whom I still don’t know – you were alone in your apartment. You most likely didn’t know what was happening to you, or that your end was approaching. Despite your desire to live a long, fulfilling life, you died alone in a crappy apartment with a syringe in your hand and a shoelace tied around your arm.

I didn’t go to your funeral. I’m sorry about that. I couldn’t do it.

Over the past few weeks – as the reality of the situation sinks in – I’ve been thinking about everything we talked about over the years. You wanted to visit Thailand and you wanted to become a chef. You didn’t believe in God, and you weren’t sure there was really a heaven or hell. You knew you had made a lot of mistakes in your life. Above everything else, you loved your family. Your sister was your world, and your little brother was your hero. You wanted to set a good example for them and you failed.

I started this letter by announcing that I had a very serious apology to make. And I do. After everything that we had been through – both as friends and a couple – I’m sorry that I left you to deal with your problems alone. I shouldn’t have. Even if I stopped being your girlfriend, I still could have been your friend. I could have helped you from a distance, but all I thought about was protecting myself. That was wrong, and now you’re dead. I’ll never get to tell you that to your face, and every time I think about what your life could have been, my heart breaks a little bit more.

Everyone tells me not to blame myself. Maybe now that I’ve apologized, I won’t anymore. I loved you passionately once Mike, and I still cared. I will always care. I promise.