An Aborted Letter to a Relative in Trouble (Circa 2008)

I am writing to you now not as my niece, but as a young girl who reminds me of my aging and what I think I learned in the process. Now, sitting here in my basement apartment, I acknowledge that I am only 30 (or 31 – can’t remember at the moment) and hopefully am far from mature. But perhaps all the better – I left your age not so long ago. And, despite my twenties with their ridiculous half aborted love affairs and job worries, my early teenage years – the years you are fitfully exiting now – leave the greatest impression in my mind. I made decisions then I’ve been coasting on ever since. Decisions made in relative ignorance that were, frankly, more a product of luck and blind rebellion than foresight. I would like you to make your decisions with better information.

I certainly want to impart you with any wisdom I may have to give. But this is also a blatant attempt to convince you that you are loved. I have difficulty understanding intellectually that being loved should make a difference, but I understand, personally, that it does. I have experienced deep and persistent belief in the impossibility of my worth. And, despite the fact that this should not matter – that I firmly believe we have a responsibility to be productive and useful no matter what our emotional state – I acknowledge that attempting to work in loveless circumstances is crushing and often futile. But you now have physical evidence that you are loved – this letter is written for you out of love.

When you were a baby I often stayed with you so your mother could sleep. You had fits and cried often, but I was usually able to comfort you until she woke up. You were my first experience with a new, demanding life. Thank you.

THE PERSONAL

I want to write to you now about your mother. And I point out that I am qualified. I also know her as a mother – I am as much your brother as your uncle. Until the age of 6 or 7 she lived with me as a second mother. And although she wasn’t really my mother, it was pretended and believed. I recall your uncle D. and I being her children in countryside bars. She was joking, but me, D., and the bartenders believed her well enough. At home it was the same. Whenever your grandmother was busy your mother would fill in.

Because she was my mother too I understand your interest in her. When you were younger you would ask us about her, curious about everything. It reminded me of my own childhood. On many occasions I recall hiding near the entrance of our house waiting for her to get back from her many dates. She was beautiful and always out.

I would climb