Dear Diary,
Honestly, this isn't working the 'therapy' keeping a journal and writing it all down doesn't help even a bit, it's a bunch of lines of how 'writing it down can help'. It doesn't I just recall that night over and over and over again, it's like screaming, anyways, I am just doing this to flatter my 'beloved' therapist, if she was the best in town, then I wouldn't be haunted by that night a year ago in my dreams, It's been a year and she couldn't help. My dad is still dead and I am still the way I am no improvements. However, I have to write something productive for her to see. It's not like I don't like her, but it's mostly not approving this particular method, I mean if someone wants me to write down my feelings without feeling judged by the people reading it. The way I see it when you keep a diary, it's so that you write your deepest thoughts without anyone snooping around on them. I know she's trying to help but please stop reading the dairy and I promise I will put in some effort in talking with you, promise! I mean no offense but I feel like I am writing a letter not a diary entry, I mean what is left for me to do is stop kidding myself and instead of writing dear diary I should write dear Maria. No offense when you read this. This is just frustrating it's not freeing me or any of that kind of trash you keep telling me but it's like I have this need to sensor a freaking diary, it's against the unwritten laws I mean sue me but seriously and a diary you and shouldn't let anyone else read it's an unwritten law. Anyways I am being mean and it's not what he would've wanted so,
Thankful,
Emma.
I watch anxiously and wait for the judgment of the lovely Maria I mean I love her but seriously lay back on the judgment. I can see it in her eyes everyone's eyes actually, everyone pities me I wouldn't blame them but I hate the pity I see in their eyes, that's why I am leaving this town in two weeks, I am going off to college to NYC.
I sit there waiting for her final verdict on my thoughts playing with ends of my chestnut hair. Maria looks amused by the letter I had written I mean who wouldn't.
She looks at me and starts telling me, "You know the weird thing is, this most emotion I have gotten out of you this entire year, I think that the sarcasm and the joking around in this letter shows how you are trying to reach out to us,"
"Don't sugarcoat it, Maria, you think it's my cry for help"
"Yeah, but at the same time, it could be a theory. It's just been really hard to read from you lately. Are you-''
"I don't think so, I just think I am so sick and tired of this stupid cycle happening over and over again. We talk you think we have a breakthrough and then you are wrong we are back to square one. So I was thinking that maybe I should stop this for a while since I will be packing up for college?"
"Sure, hon. By the way, I am taking you up for that offer of writing an actual dairy that I wouldn't read, but with the condition of you write it all down every detail and you talk to me, I am still your aunt not just your therapist."
"Thank you, thank you, and thank you!" I jump up from my seat and into my loving aunt's arms and she smiles against my shoulder.
"Thank me by actually going through with that promise," she laughs.
I know what I feel like is common the sense of loss but it's not that, it's the feeling of being responsible for the death of the person you love the most. Everywhere I go I am haunted by his memory it eats me alive my guilt the sadness. I just hope one day I will learn to deal with that pain.
I drive home although it was uneventful, it feels like the first time I have been alone all summer, between going to therapy, and family dinners, well something like family diners, I feel like I haven't had a moment for it to sink in, and I don't want it too actually. My mom wouldn't let me drive myself to Aunt Maria's office afraid I would think about that day; today was the first day in two months and 3 days of summer which she let me drive myself.
I park in the driveway, and go inside hollering 'like a caveman' my mother would say, "Eric, mom, I'm home from a long and pointless sit in with Maria!"
"Ahh here's my pessimist of a sister, you know you could help here out and you know talk," he smiles and looks and me teasingly.
"You what else would help, you shutting up you are the beginning of my new migraine," I shoot back. This is the only familiar thing left in my life our sibling banter. Kind of sad when you think about it, luckily I tend not to.
"Both of you are acting like children, stop it," my mom comes down the stairs.
"Compared to your age mom we are children to you," Eric bits back. Oh no, you never comment on a women's age it's like an unwritten rule. He's dead alright.
"Eric….I suggest you run," I look at him as if giving him a well-reserved warning.
Eric runs for his life while my mother takes her slipper off and starts to aim, well Eric is a goner. The slipper flies from the kitchen right towards his head. Dramatically, my brother falls as if a wounded soldier. "Man up, it's not like you died. Get up," I try to drag off the well-polished wooden floor.
"You know this is child abuse, right? I can report you," Eric tells our mother jokingly.
"Sure, right after I cook some food, or you don't want that done? I can leave you to know," my mom laughs a genuine laugh. It's been forever since I heard that kind of laugh. I miss it, I miss everything.
Honestly, I don't think everything is going to be the same again.