An Open Letter to Someone I’ve Been Thinking About

Your birthday just passed. I sent you a message on Facebook. I’m not sure if you check that these days. I would have texted, but I don’t think you have a phone. 

We moved to Texas, did you know that? We moved for several reasons. You may have been a small one. It felt weird to be sitting at a stoplight and wonder if I’d see you, the homeless community is everywhere in Tucson these days. It wasn’t like that when we moved there as kids, or were you too young to remember that?

I often wonder what you remember and what you don’t. Addiction has a way of distorting the truth, and yet I’m sure you recollect a lot, and it’s the very thing you’re trying to numb.

I found a new counselor here. I wish you could find someone to talk through your pain with.

I mentioned you to her. It wasn’t until she asked me what brought us to Texas that I realized the depth of loss we had experienced in Arizona. Loss of relationships, loss of community, and maybe the hardest of all, a loss of what we thought would be. I never realized what a luxury dreaming was until we had experienced so much loss that it felt impossible. 

I wouldn’t have known I had such sorrow and grief to lament because those were the same years we brought Fielder home. And for so long, the blessing he is illuminated any darkness we experienced those years. I remember you asked to meet him, but I told you not until you were sober.

Maybe I should have let you, because I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. Addiction is a weird thing. In many ways, we’ve already lost you while simultaneously waiting to grieve you all over again.

I’m spending a few days on Lake Michigan at a writing retreat.  I flew in a day early, 24 hours all to myself. It’s incredible how healing the simplicity of time to think is. Not a frequent opportunity with the mental load I usually have back home. 

I walked to a lighthouse before I met up with my writing group. On my way back, I saw a girl who reminded me of you at that age—about 4 years old, platinum hair, with curls more like kinks. Remember, people used to ask Mom if she bleached and permed your hair? 

Sometimes life hits you slowly, leaving room to feel everything, and other times the whiplash is so hard you don’t have time to process.

I wrote those words a while back and keep thinking about them. Processing can be painful, but it’s the only way through. I’m sorry you’ve experienced so much pain, but I’m angry you’ve equally administered it. 

This weekend, our writing coach asked us how God is asking us to trust Him in our current season. I thought of myself. I thought of you. I fear you’ve become content in the corner you’ve found. Curled up, settled in for the long haul. 

Is it because you think it’s too late? Or you’re too far gone? I probably contributed to that feeling. It’s hard to know what grace and compassion looks like without enabling; it’s an impossible tightrope that families of people with an addiction face. 

Anyways, I had some free time to write. I’ve been trying my hand at fiction and had planned to spend the time working on my manuscript, but I felt prompted to write this instead. 

I’m not sure you’ll ever see it. But it’s not just for you, it’s for me. Or anyone struggling. I wish you knew you weren’t alone in that. Our struggles just look different. I wanted to say it’s not too late. There is always hope. I forget that myself. We all need that reminder often.

Sometimes the room we find ourselves in becomes dark. We may not know the way forward, but we can trust that He guides us even when we can’t see the way.  

Love you, 

Sarah