Dear William

Dear William,

I feel so depressed! Maybe I should capitalize DEPRESSED. Would that add more of an emphasis to it? Man, I don’t know what to say anymore. I want to cry but every time I try nothing comes out. I sit in the shower and just think, every morning for at least a half an hour. I suppose it’s better than staying up until two in the morning. You can thank Hope for that. I called her one day and tried to explain what was going on, but I had a hard time. I think it was shortly after Harrison died. There was dead silence and she asked me a question and I gave a dumb response. I wasn’t able to say what was really going on…that’s when she gave me that advice, “get some sleep.” The problem was I was up until one, one-thirty every night. The worst part is that no one in this house-hold really knew why. Then a few days later Cathy picked me up from school so that I could make it to work on time, she said that I just needed to sleep and get rested in order to deal with my problems. So far that hasn’t worked, or…well, it did for a while. That’s only because I lied to myself. I write poetry to help me deal with these things. You know, it’s like a drug. A quick fix. Yeah, sure, the pain goes down, some of the problems go away, but…I…

I wrote this poem called If Roses Are For You. I began writing it late some Thursday night. I had just gotten back from a high school concert in Hibbing. The concert was a blast but I cried a lot that night. They played some really sad songs…Tears In Heaven…I don’t know, some of the songs weren’t sad, like Dust In The Wind, or Imagine, but after your brother… I cried. I cried. I cried…do I dare say it again? I cried.

My mom and I went to pick up a few things for my sisters at the store and then went home. I don’t even want to get into the car ride home. I got to my room at ten-thirty, turned on my computer and stared at this very same page that I am typing this letter on right now. Tears free-flowed back then. It was horrible. I wrote the poem because Hope had invited to the concert earlier that week. Then that Thursday afternoon I found out my brother died. I wrote the poem in an attempt to describe the events that day and get things off my chest. When I finished I typed up another poem, one that I wrote as a song but never finished. I went to bed at nearly one-thirty.

Come Friday I was home alone and confused. I called Peter, Hope’s father, who happens to be my college advisor as well was my Sunday-school teacher. The first thing he asked is why I hadn’t mentioned anything the night previous, but then he figured it was the wrong-place-wrong-time. Truth be told Hope was so happy that I came, excited for the show, I’m going to guess she seen other people as well, and I wasn’t going to ruin a good night for them. I could hardly keep a conversation, but I told myself that I was handling this well.

I called Ruth, a girl who leads a bible study at the college. And then I called Pastor Dan. I didn’t feel like there was much support from his end of things but maybe that was just me. I was quiet on the phone anyway. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never had to deal with this before. I mean, my grandparents died but they were fairly old and to-be-expected. Statistically young people have a high success rate for leukemia. I figured eleven was still young enough to fall within the high success rate category.

I decided I was going to send Hope a check for her mission trip, and actually it wasn’t me who decided this, and I don’t think she even knows the truth. Not many people do. Ok…here goes-This all started at church after we, meaning Hope and I, spoke to the church that we were going on mission trips. I jokingly said “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you give me a hundred dollars, that way we can support each other.” I was thinking about this later on that week and I heard a voice saying, “Do what your heart desires.” But this isn’t new; God has spoken to me like this many times before. I told myself that I will wait until my first pay check to see how much I should send. Being that I am going on a mission trip too, I thought that it was kind of strange that I would send money to another missionary. Soon after I thought to wait for my paycheck the voice came back saying, “Don’t send her any money.”

I thought it was strange but arguing with God is like batting your head against a brick wall. A few days later the voice again said to me, “Send Hope some money.” This time I wasn’t dumb, so I asked, “How much should I send.” His reply was, “I’m not going to tell you.” What a guy He is. Telling me to do something and then not telling me any specifics. I played the guessing game with Him. “$10, $20, $30, $40…” So-on and so-on and so-on. He never did tell me that night. A few days later I was filling the milk cooler at work, it’s so loud in there you can’t even hear the intercom. This is where God and I do most of our talking, well…before I changed it to-after my shower. I had just deposited my first paycheck of $160 something or other. The voice then said to me, “Your trip is $805, Hope’s is $4,000. You make over $100 a week. In eight weeks you can pay for your trip yourself.” I began to ponder what he had said. It was all beginning to make sense to me! The more I work, the less I have to raise. But I was wrong. “One hundred. One hundred. One hundred. Send her one hundred dollars.” God said it; not me. And it was his physical voice. Not some made-up thought. Sometimes you just have to wait for the answer.

I wrote the check, but then decided to write a small letter. Two and one-half hours later I finished a one-page letter. That was really hard to write, mostly because Harrison died the day before. I decided to add the poem, If Roses Are For You. Mostly because it was about the night previous. Then I added the poem, …EFGHIKLMNOP… This one was written about Harrison, whose nickname was Jay, and I did not use one J in the poem. I sealed the letter took it to the mail box but the mailman had already come. I threw it on the table and stared at it. I opened it up and tried to read the poems. I think I made it two lines and I lost it. I have never read the entire poem of, If Roses Are For You, since the night I wrote it. From ten until two I cried. I thought back to when I said I was handling it well.I did well until Sunday when I went to church. I cried a lot during the service and thought back to just a week earlier when I was crying in church because Harrison was sick with cancer. Now I was crying because he wasn’t sick with cancer. There were lots of people comforting me but that died down quickly. I wasn’t smothered in sympathy although a part of me wanted it and the other part didn’t.

I was using my late-night awakenings to feel what I couldn’t feel at work because at work I was to be happy and friendly to the customers. I will never be crabby to them. Around this time is when Hope told me to get some sleep. I remember after I got off the phone with her I went straight to bed at only seven-thirty. Since then my bed time has been nine-thirty. I even wrote a poem about that and you know, it helped me ease a bit of my negative feelings. But since I’ve been getting my sleep, I have had no time to feel. Maybe that’s not right but that’s all that’s coming out right now so it must be how it is.

I was a guy that never showed my emotions. My mom was aggressive and my dad was passive. I was always too hurt to say anything to my mom so I followed in my father’s passive footsteps. When I saw Harrison’s dad speaking at the funeral, he could barely speak let alone stand up there, my first thought was toward a comment that Heidi, my stepmother, made about how Dave, Harrison’s father, didn’t care about Harrison and his cancer. I broke down and started to cry, but the instinctive passive-fatherly-footsteps character kicked in. It’s not that I’m afraid to show or feel less of a man or something, it’s just that I was never taught how to show emotions and now that I know how I have to break out of the cycle of holding back.

While outside at the cemetery I did a good job at crying so that others didn’t see me. My dad knew and he offered me a tissue but as far as I know he was it. Then a family friend came over, one who I haven’t seen in years. He was asking me all sorts of non-emotional questions. I just looked at him and cried. Can you believe that Will, I cried in front of someone for the first time! That’s not usually me but it was a step. Since then I haven’t been able to cry which brings me back to the first paragraph.

I noticed after Sunday-school class, Ten Questions To Diagnose Your Spiritual Health, that I wasn’t having my regular talks with God. The logical answer is that I seem to be too busy. But I was spiritually empty. That night I was so depressed that I couldn’t get to sleep until twelve or so. I don’t know what to do any more Will. It’s been four days and counting and I feel so depressed. I was working on the rough draft for my website and I was so emotionally drained that I couldn’t focus.It is currently ten-twenty-three PM. I have been living off a twenty four pack of Mountain Dew and Zebra Cakes for the past six and one half hours. Actually this behavior has gone on for the past three days but I never drink soda. Nor do I eat sweets like I have been. Although I must say that telling you all of this does make me feel better but not in the way I want it to. I think I am getting some of the old underlining feelings off of my chest but there is still that depression. I don’t know what else to say…I’ve been writing this letter for four hours and I am only this far. And just think I will post this on my poem site for the whole world to read. What am I thinking, this isn’t even a poem. It’s a letter to myself.

I just want to cry. I wish there were someone I could talk to rather than this piece of fake white paper plastered on a computer screen. Although I must admit, I am never interrupted by the other party when writing a letter to myself. I want to cry in front of someone. I want someone to hug me and say that it’s going to be ok. “Just look on the bright side William,” I tell myself. “Look on the bright side.”Is it ok if I curse? No, I won’t curse, I can’t. There’s this feeling inside that wants to scream profanities. The individual throws his arms about and smack the table over and over as he breaks down. I did this just this morning as I was sitting in the shower during my meditation time. Sorry. I’m lost, can you help me find my way home. Why. Why. Why. Please stop this car. I want to go home now. Please, my ride is over. Please listen to me…STOP! Here, keep the change…it’s my donation to you. Listen, please return my call, I want to talk to you please. When will this end. I will say this though, thanks for being my friend.... I’m scared. Please hold me tighter. I don’t want to slip away. Please you’re losing your grip. I wish I could stop, the pain is too much. Sometimes I just wish people could really miss me. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I am dead…how would people respond to that. I’m not talking about suicide, no. Don’t even think that. I did think that once though, but God pulled me through. They say that in times like these God will pull you through and if He doesn’t you will learn to depend on Him more. I think God is playing favorites with me because He treats me like I’m special. More so than everybody else. Look at my past. The Reality Of Life? I wrote a poem about the reality of life. It’s a poem I wrote about when I almost killed someone. Ok I’m crying now…I can’t write this anymore. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? I would scream but this paper won’t hear me anyway. “Jesus loves me this I know. For the bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The bible tells me so.”

That makes me feel better, but I have to go, it’s nearly eleven thirty and I can hardly write with all these tears in my eyes. Pray for me William and I will pray for you. And please write back. I still feel depressed. But my mind is more clear.

Thanks for listening!

God Bless,
William Justison