Dearest Rachel –
Despite the title of this letter, no, this has nothing to do with the leftovers moldering in the back of the fridge. While it’s true that we actually do have a few such things in there, both from the extended family party on Sunday as well as the main family get-together on Christmas Day itself, it’s not as if they’ve been buried to the point of forgetfulness; in fact, Daniel and I have both eaten into our stock since bringing them home, as is meant to be done – it’s required a deliberate effort, to be sure, but it’s happening. At the same time, none of the dishes served at either party contained such among their ingredients – although admittedly, panko crumbs would be a more than suitable substitute for the traditional corn flakes on the cheesy potato dish.
No, the breadcrumbs I’m referring to are the ones presumably left behind throughout these letters to you; stuff that I’ve dropped as I’ve chronicled my attempts to move on since your departure. And as they’ve sat there in my wake, undetected by me or anyone else, they’ve slowly gone stale as they’ve sat there.
You’ll recall that I originally meant to use this site to talk to you, and remind myself of the many things I miss about you and our time together. I meant to spend time reminiscing about days past, before they slipped completely from my mind. And in a way, there are little nuggets of the past I will occasionally bring up from time to time as they occur to me; mostly thanks to your studies which, while giving me a bit of a break every Sunday when it comes to determining a topic to cover with you, also will have you referencing something you were dealing with in the moment that is now little more than a memory for me to hold, turning over in my hands wistfully as I examine it from whatever angle I can. These are breadcrumbs you’ve left behind for me to follow, and while it wasn’t what I intended to make of these letters, I appreciate the opportunity it gives me to remember those days a little better than if I was just relying on my own memories.
When it became clear to me that I wasn’t going to be able to consistently reminisce with you about those good old days – mostly because there were so many present days bearing down on me, one after the other – I resigned myself to relating these days to you as they went by and I tried to deal with what came up in them, aware that you might very well have dealt differently with the circumstances than I did on my own. Those that assisted me along the way, I referred to by name, as you wouldn’t recognize them if I hung a pseudonym on them. And while I haven’t retroactively changed any of them, it was pointed out to me that not everybody wants their name out on the internet; it doesn’t take all that much for a determined someone to put the pieces together and ascertain the who, what and where of the dramatis personae that cross my path. Best to disguise those particular breadcrumbs going forward; no need to encourage the vultures, if there be any, to snap them up.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind if there were some wise owls out there going through these letters, to be honest. There was a point in time where I was convinced that they were going to chronicle my gradual disintegration; and I’m not entirely convinced they won’t yet. While I may think that I’ve made my way through the Kübler-Ross stages of grief and gotten on with my life, the fact that I’m still writing you would suggest otherwise. And as it’s becoming more and more clear to me that there may very well not be a ‘Megumi’ out there for me to find (or if she is, it’s doubtful that I’ll find her before I fall apart), that fact is starting to wear on my psyche, along with points further south. I’ve spent enough time reading and watching about certain dark corners of the internet to be concerned that this could become another one of those. However, too many of them only become dark in retrospect; the ‘happy-happy-joy-joy’ feel of certain posts and videos belie the reality beneath. Can I be caught before that happens? Will someone be able to tell from various clues (and I don’t know what they might be; they’re all just real life to me) whether I’m on the road to recovery or ruin?
Or will all these breadcrumbs that I unwittingly drop about my mental, physical and emotional state simply sit there until they go stale? I’m not sure how many people are reading over your shoulder, honey, and I doubt many of them ever considered treating my life (or anyone else’s they might read about online) like some kind of alternate reality game; after all, it’s not alternate reality, it is reality that I’m recounting.
And to be fair, I’m not sure I’m any closer to the precipice than anyone else out here, honey; it may just be that I’m more aware that I could be than most people. And with a large enough paper trail (well, virtually, at least), someone else might be able to pick up on the little hints that I’m going spare in a way that might escape me due to it being such a gradual slide into madness… or not.
It would be ironic to think that, for all my concerns about losing my mind over all this, I might be one of the saner folks out here online, and not know it. I literally can’t tell if I’m doing better or worse for the effects of the last four years; it’s why I ask the question, hoping someone else can tell from my words. At the same time, I can’t imagine getting an answer, either, so either way, I don’t think I’ll ever find out until I either reach nirvana or nihilism – at which point, it’ll be too late to turn around, if I have to.
So with that being said, honey, keep an eye on me. Nudge me in the right direction, if you can, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 