Edith had clutched the letter in her hand, or kept it in her purse for so long it was crumpled and worn. So much so that anyone else would have thought it had been a letter she had received from a very dear friend. But it was not. It was a letter that she had written to herself at the beginning of this oh, so very long journey. A letter that simply said ‘I love you. You are worth every step of the way.’ She had signed it with the name her grandmother had given her. ‘Punkin.’ She had stopped being Punkin a long, long, long time ago but when she went deep in her heart Punkin was still there.
She sat at her kitchen table and knew that it was time. Time to let go of the letter. She was so tired of all the challenges that had been set up in her way ~ and all the challenges that she had created for herself! She could barely remember what she had written but Edith knew that she would not be able to read it unless it was delivered to her. That had been her promise to herself when she had been to the first treatment centre. She carried the letter with her to detox after detox, treatment center after treatment center. She was often tempted to just throw it away but each time changed her mind at the last minute.
Today, Edith stood in front of the big red mailbox on the corner. She looked around to see if anyone else was coming. She needed time to let go of the letter.
‘This is insane! Mailing a stupid letter to myself.’
In her heart, Edith hoped with the magical thinking of a child, this strange action would finally help her to let go of all the baggage she had been lugging around, keeping her fixed to that temporary courage of powders and spirits.
Hand on the cold steel handle, she slowly opened the yawning mail chute. Carefully she edged the wrinkled letter, address down, on to the cold metal hatch. Turning her face away she opened her hand and let go of the hatch. It slammed with a metallic clang. Her letter was gone. She had finally let go.
“Even on my weakest days
I get a little stronger.”
~ Sara Evans
Edith had clutched the letter in her hand, or kept it in her purse for so long it was crumpled and worn. So much so that anyone else would have thought it had been a letter she had received from a very dear friend. But it was not. It was a letter that she had written to herself at the beginning of this oh, so very long journey. A letter that simply said ‘I love you. You are worth every step of the way.’ She had signed it with the name her grandmother had given her. ‘Punkin.’ She had stopped being Punkin a long, long, long time ago but when she went deep in her heart Punkin was still there.
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