Dear Dead Self

A letter to who could have been my dead self

Dear Dead Self,

            It’s January 3, 2013. Currently it’s 10:30 AM. You’ve been alive for just about 17 years. Your mom went and bought a cake for you. You know, your favorite kind. The kind that exists. She drove to Market Basket last night while you slept soundly at an unusually early hour. Your brother prepared to harmonize singing Happy Birthday for you, your boyfriend wanted to text a smiley face to you, and your new friend bought a bunny doll as your present that reminded her of you. You’re celebrating your existence in this world today.

Well, actually, you’re not. Instead of experiencing any of those pleasant occurrences, you’re lying on top of a casket with a bunch of people dressed in ugly black dresses and suits waiting to chant creepy hymns in order to send you off to heaven. You’re dressed in an unnaturally suitable dress for death too; something black and long. You don’t even like maxi dresses. It looks like a potato sack on you. Your face is pretty gross right now, too; some pale s**t smothering your skin and black outlining your eyes. At least your eyes are closed. The hollowness of death would have been f*****g ghastly.

What the f**k, man. Why are you dead?

Did you really go and do it this time? Write a sentimental letter to rationalize that you’re responsible by giving a reason or several for ending it all, let your hands tie a hangman’s knot, pour those so-called pain reducing pills into your sweaty palms, choke down those savory ovals, close your eyes and step off the desk? Or maybe… was it an automobile accident? Maybe it was a sleepy driver anxious to get home that couldn’t see your favorite black coat in the dark, that coat that your mom complained about being too invisible at night. Or maybe you were reckless. Maybe you were trying to send him that final message of reassurance by text, but only ended up rekindling your mother’s pain of losing her own parent to a vehicle operated by an unknowing, unfortunately involved being.

Was it sudden, like a heart attack, or slow, like cancer? Well… I guess if you died because of a long lasting disease like stomach cancer, the type that her mom had, you would know, from all of the tears that you watched fall from her unforgiving twelve year old eyes. You would have experienced a lot more stabbing, physical pain. The kind you saw in his eyes as you repeated the word no. So, if it was sudden, like choking on a piece of food that you didn’t chew thoroughly, which is an unlikely source of death (you liked to chew everything thoroughly), was it public? Were you with the friend that drifted away for hopes and dreams of acceptance into that Ivy League college of choice, or were you with the girl that you knew would rule the world someday? Did you see her panic, the regret in her eyes for not having cared as much, for not having gotten to know you better, or did you notice the hopeful glint in her eyes for reuniting with you in the future as you were wheeled off to the ambulance?

            Huh. Fascinating. You could have died in a variety of ways. But, regardless of why you are dead, are you happy now? That’s the more important thing: your current level of happy. Are you satisfied with leaving everything as was? You had a lot of supporters, you know. Your brother would have been slightly devastated. You two had great conversations with each other, and were completely in sync in terms of humor. Of course, he wouldn’t let it impact him for too long; he would come to accept the fact that his smart younger sister had died before she even got to college and became someone great. Your boyfriend would be in denial for a little while. He’d have a lot more trouble forgetting about it than you had previously imagined. Your mom, too, would be crushed; all that time spent studying for the SATs could have been spent with her, during more vacations to exotic, new places, during shopping trips to the mall, during dinners with the whole family; now, I guess, missing one. I think your dad would be pretty displeased about it too; did you really have to go and die, after all that he and your mom invested in you? And not just the money; you could have appreciated them, your family, more. Now you don’t even have the chance to say “I love you” one more time. And don’t forget all of your acquaintances. The ones that waved hello back to you, even though they didn’t have to. The ones that asked how your day was, even though they knew that you might express puzzlement to their question of “How are you?” by confusedly pointing out that the question is ambiguous. They could be blaming themselves, you know. Was it that one time that they didn’t see you as they walked past, or ignored you on the path? Did all those little things make you want to… do it? Or maybe they regret that they didn’t get to know you better; you seemed like a cool cat. Or maybe they don’t care at all. They can’t do anything about it, anyway. You’re dead.

            Speaking of death, could you tell me what it’s like? I’m scared of death more than anything else in the world. The thought of closing my eyes and dissolving into nothingness induces me to shudders, into speechlessness. I can’t imagine going a day without worrying stupidly about which shirt to wear or without watching laughing people walk past on the path. I don’t want to ever miss the opportunity to contort my face into a mixture of disgust and discomfort at the scent of a fart, or let go of sighing appreciatively as an orchestral jumble meshes into my pleading ears. I never want to know that every thought really does count, that every minute in a day should be used to appreciate, that every breath could be my last. Could you please tell me?

            But alas, you’re dead. I guess I can’t really ask you. Thanks for making an effort, though.

Yours truly, alive and well,

Current Self