Page 14 of Getting it Right (Addy's Rollercoaster)

“Was your writing about those dark feelings?”

I nodded. “You said we should get in the habit of writing our feelings down when we feel sad and don’t have anyone to talk to. So, that’s what I did last night when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Who did you write to? Your sister? Barry?”

“My baby.”

“Can I see your letter?” she asked softly.

“Sure.”

We stopped outside Clara’s office. I unfolded the crinkled paper, handed it to her, and stood very still as I watched her eyes move. They glistened with brightness like mine did when I wrote it.

Dear Baby Girl,

I love you. That’s what I want you to know most of all, and I hope you never doubt it. The mistakes I made are my own, not yours, but they’re mistakes that are going to cost me everything that means anything ... most of all you.

I can make excuses for how I got to this point. My father’s abandonment. My mother doing drugs that eventually killed her. I’m alive, unlike her, but I feel dead. I feel so alone now. There’s no one in my life I can truly talk to when I feel this sad, except you. I’m nineteen years old as I’m writing this to you, but I don’t feel young anymore. I don’t feel like my life is ahead of me. I feel very old.

I woke up with a nightmare. I have those sometimes now. I dreamed I was trapped and everything bad was happening all over again. All those feelings of helplessness crashed over me like a gigantic wave. I went under, and everything went dark. My heart pounded with panic. I couldn’t breathe, but then you kicked me, and I remembered I wasn’t alone after all.

You are my light to chase away the darkness, the only beauty salvageable inside me. You are my breath when I feel like I’m drowning.

The name Ella has different meanings. She. The first lady of song. The moon in Gaelic. A light that outshines the stars. That’s who I picture when I think of you. Ella is also your grandmother’s middle name. It’s what I want your grandparents to call you. It’s what I call you.

Good night, Ella, my love.

Your mom always,

Addy

Addy

“How is waitressing going?” Elizabeth asked during our private session.

I glanced away. “It’s going well.”

“Iswellreally your answer?”

“No.” I looked at her to find her squinting at me. She knew me and my deflection strategies by this point. Having been at the shelter for six months, I was due any day now.

I sighed. “It goes well, except sometimes I get flustered and have to talk myself down from a panic attack.”

“That’s normal, Addy. And I’m very pleased you’re remembering the techniques you learned when things feel overwhelming. That shows tremendous self-awareness.” She tapped the file in her lap. “The reports we’ve received from your employer are good.” She tilted her head. “In group and private, you rarely mention those dark feelings anymore.”

“I still have them,” I said wryly. “I’ve just gotten better at using the coping techniques to handle them.”

“Are you still journaling?”

I nodded. That was what she called the letters I wrote to Ella.

“That’s good, Addy.” She leaned toward me, her fingers laced together. “Can we talk about a topic you’ve been avoiding so far?”

“Sure,” I said, but took in a nervous gulp of air.

“Let’s discuss your mom.”

I went instantly tense, and my hands on my lap curled into fists. “She was never a mother to me.”

---