A letter

Dear son,
Although we never really spoke or met the way people usually meet or speak, and though you are not real or better yet, although you are me, or more accurately, you are the young me, you are the unresolved me and the emotions which revolve within me, I am writing this to relieve you of some things, which you gripped too tightly and held for too long.

First and foremost, there are a few things I need you to know.
First is your thoughts are not your fault. The things you saw and the words you heard, the fears and the worry, the wonder, and the unsure times when all seemed mismatched, none of this was you.

No, you were never anything short of magnificent.

I know you were scared and meanwhile, all you wanted to do was just be you. You just wanted to be a kid, to live and to laugh, and to play and to run. All you wanted was to feel like you fit.
You wanted so many things but you never had the language to ask for them. So, instead you tried to act. You tried to laugh and you tried to smile, but still, you lacked the words to say what you need.

I see you now as you were then.
And I see your eyes exactly as they were.
Perfect . . .

I see you and I know all of your memory. I know the ones you held and the ones you wished you could let go of . . . but you never knew how, because you never knew how to ask for help.
I know your fears about feeling left alone. I know the reasons why you were scared to sleep. You thought too much and never thought at all; these memories were never yours to keep.

I wish I could have seen you then or stepped in and told you that none of this was real. I know what you saw and what you felt. I know about the things you wished you never had. I know about the man behind them too. But trust me, this was not you

I am here and it’s okay to come out now. It’s okay to let go and it’s okay to be you. There’s no one here but us. It’s just you and me, finally.

Little kids play games. They run and laugh. They played hide and go seek. They swing on the swing-sets and try to go high enough to kick the sun. They run in fields and get grass stains in their knees. This is you. This is where you should be.

Free . . .


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