There is no easy way to write this letter. I know you’ll never read this. This is for me. I attempted unsuccessfully, time and again, to explain to you things about my depression. I’m not sure you understood. You always told me, “We make our own happiness and we make our own misery.” I do know you meant it to be helpful, but well…it wasn’t, and it still isn’t.
I’ve tried making my own happiness. I’ve tried being positive. The thoughts of suicide and my own worthlessness are still there. I can never be fully free of them, like you were never fully free of your ovarian cancer. And your cancer claimed your life. Not without a long, hard fight, which I’ll always revere you for. But it still killed you in the end.
No, I am not meaning this will be the death of me. I’ve fought this since age 15, maybe longer. It is, of course, an ongoing battle. I’ve told you this. Did you believe me?
I have wanted to tell you all the details of how I feel, what it feels like…but…you didn’t want to hear it. I suppose no one truly does. It seems like you only wanted me happy.
This always seemed to kill me a little inside.
I know you couldn’t know what it is really like. I’ve tried so hard to be what you thought I should be.
I fail. I fail every time.
I don’t blame you for it, but…it still hurts. Wanting you to understand was like…is like wanting a hearing person to know what it’s like to be deaf.
After a while, I finally stopped trying to please you in this way. I finally let myself cry. And let you be angry and confused over my crying. Let you put me down for it, for misunderstanding something that was said.
Happiness is not a choice. I wish it were. Things would be so much easier. Rather, happiness happens.
I did not choose this. Who would? It happens.
It seems you wanted a version of me that never truly existed; it seems that, I, too, wanted the same. This makes me a hypocrite. I am fully aware of this.
I did try. Not always my very best.
What else can I say? I know I let you down. But there were times you did accept me as I was.
You did your best. I know this.
You were honest. Always. Eager to help. Generous. And fun. It’s the fun I miss most. I’ll never know it again.
I wonder if you would think I am “wallowing” in my grief. I’m not sure. I only know that some days are all right. Some are horrible. Some are nothing at all. This is nothing I expected.
I feel like a toddler in my sadness. It comes in floods, then stops entirely.
I don’t know how to end this, or if this has an ending. I’m thinking it doesn’t.
All I can do is keep living. I hope that is good enough.