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Sometimes I think I must be because what I’ve done is nearly impossible to comprehend without one of those labels.
I’m not talking about cheating on a test, swiping a shirt from a store, or deceiving your family. I’m not even talking about physically harming someone. What I mean is, have you ever known full well that what you were about to do would set in motion a series of events you couldn’t undo? Events that would change and possibly destroy the lives of others?
Yet you did it anyway because something inside of you had shattered with no chance of repair?
You probably haven’t. I imagine most people haven’t sunk that low. Maybe broken is the most appropriate label to slap on me for what I’ve done. But it seems too kind. It gives me an out I don’t think I deserve.
Regardless, I’m left with the insurmountable task of explaining why I committed such a sin. And the even more impossible task of making you understand and somehow not hate me when you have every right to. What makes it worse is that I’ve taken the easy way out. If you’re reading this letter, I’m dead and will never have to face your wrath. I’ll never have to see the shock on your face, watch you break down the instant you realize your entire life has changed. I’ll never hear you curse my name, though I’ve imagined it many times.
I will never have to face what I’ve done. And, God, it’s so much simpler that way.
Not only am I a sinner, I’m also a coward.
Once you’re on the other side of a transgression like mine, the weight of it presses on your soul for the rest of your days. In my case, I’m not sure how long I’ll suffer from the guilt of knowing I’ve caused an irreversible change in your life, but it won’t be many. My days are numbered, and that number is low.
I suppose I need to get on with telling you what I’ve done, but even as I sit here with a pen in my failing hand, knowing I’ll never witness your reaction to this letter, I’m finding it difficult to write the words. Maybe I don’t know where to start, or maybe it’s more of that cowardice.
Well, here I go. I’m taking a deep breath and starting at the beginning.
My parents adopted me when I was a baby. After that, I had what I would call a normal upbringing. Mom, dad, sister (also adopted), family pet, suburbs with a fenced-in yard, public school, not rich but not poor…you know, the basic American family unit.
If there was anything that set us apart from the rest of my peers, it was my parents’ strict rules and close hovering over my sister and me. When my mother was a young teenager, one of her cousins passed in a tragic accident. My mom was there and tried unsuccessfully to save her.
She and my dad were high school sweethearts, so he witnessed the devastation that event caused my mother and her family. We’ve rarely spoken of it, but that event seemed to set off deep anxiety and fear of loss in my mother. Follow that up with long and heartbreaking years of infertility and miscarriages... More loss.
Eventually, they were able to adopt two girls within two years. She compensated for her fears by keeping very close tabs on my sister and me. No sleepovers, heavily censored television and books, nine o’clock curfew throughout high school, no sports, vetting our friends like they were FBI agents instead of shop owners, and absolutely no dating until we graduated high school. She hoped if they clamped down tight and put a bubble around us, we’d never get drunk with our underaged friends and get behind the wheel of our boyfriend’s car as my mother’s cousin did so many years before.
Unfortunately for them, no matter how many layers of padding they put between us and the world, there were some things they’d never be able to control.
My sister handled their structure and overbearing nature better than I did. She is a year older, always got straight A’s, never broke a rule, and was generally the picture-perfect child. I struggled with the stifling inability to express myself, grow, and spread my wings. That struggle turned into rebellion.
Mind you, my form of rebellion was about ten times milder than most teens. I got B’s instead of A’s. I stayed out until ten at night—a whole hour past curfew. I had a secret boyfriend who I let get to second base. I even had a few beers before I graduated high school. I know, I was wild. My actions caused my mother countless sleepless nights and anxiety attacks when I’d probably have been a superstar child by any other family’s standards.
