Day Twenty-Six

Day Twenty-Six

Dear Ricci,

Impact letter time. You are probably the hardest one for me towrite, because you are seven, and obviously, I can't give this to you. One, you wouldn't understand it, and it would probably confuse you even more. After all, you thought I was away on a school field trip. (For the life of me, I don't understand why they came up with that excuse. I mean, I know anything is better than "your sister OD'd on booze and almost died on the front porch," but I think theycould have tried a little harder. I hope they tell you the truth, like I asked them to.) I think as you get older you'll realize that parents make things more complicated than they need to be a lot of the time.

Anyway, I'm here. I'm at rehab, which is a place they send you when you have some sort of problem and need time away. I'll write this as though I'm going to give it to you when you're much older, and maybe I will. Or maybe I won't. We'll see. We call these impact letters because we're supposed to recognize the impact our actions have had on other people, like you.

I drank a lot of alcohol, and yes, I almost died on Mom's front porch. We can talk about the particulars of that years from now, when you can comprehend it. It wasn't pleasant and it was my fault, because I drank too much, and then I drank some more, and then some more on top of that. And I'm here because everyone would like me to stop drinking. I think that I would like to stop it, too, and I think I can. I mean, I've been here twenty-six days without a drink. I haven't run away. I didn't accept someone's drugs taped to the inside of the bottom of their shoe and relapse while in an actual rehab. I've been doing a lot and following along but I had a little blip a few days ago, which is too bad, because I missed Christmas here and I have to stay in a room all by myself. That's a story for another time.

What I want to say is: you annoy me, you irritate me, you make me laugh, I miss snuggling with you and reading to you in bed and your whole nighttime routine, and I am really sorry that what happened happened and that you're alone now, without me. I'm sorry about whatever you're thinking right now and how lonely you might be feeling. I'm sorry that at some point you probably asked Mom when you get to go on a monthlong field trip for school in the middle of Thanksgiving and Christmas and that she probably started to cry.

This hurts:

I'm sorry that sometimes my need to drink could have hurt you. There were times that I thought about drinking while making you dinner at Dad's. I thought about it sometimes when I was giving you a bath at Mom's. Like, I could have snuck something and left you in the tub with your toys. And what then? What if I had passed out and you got hurt? I could never forgive myself. I never want to hurt you, but I'm pretty sure I have, just by being here, and you don't even know it. You don't know why I haven't sent a postcard. Or called. Or texted. I wonder what you think about that. There must be a million thoughts in your head.

Those million thoughts? They are my fault, and I'm sorry. And I hope you aren't stuffing them way down deep inside you so you don't upset anyone, like Mom or Dad, because while I do disagree with some things they tell us here, I can one hundred percent say that stuffing yourself with your feelings is not a good thing. Eventually, that will land you in a small room like it did me, and you'll miss Christmas, and your people, like I miss you right now.

I'm going to see you soon, and I can't wait. I love you.

—Bella

P.S. There are goats and chickens here and they all have names, but Ican never remember who is who. I bet you could.