I had a rough transition the other day. Dr. C. and I have been working through the narrative, and I felt as though I was making progress. I was aware of a challenge, though. I was struggling to slow down and feel emotions that were coming up. Left to my own devices, I would’ve read through, swallowing hard and ignoring any pain before it could bubble far enough to the surface to actually hit my awareness and impact my consciousness. Yet, I was aware enough that I was swallowing pain and tears away. Nonetheless, when Dr. C. would stop me, it would often result in a conversation that struck a nerve and made me feel a twinge of grief. Brutal.

And then Dr. C. didn’t have me pull out the narrative. She wanted me to write a letter to my younger self, acknowledging what happened, the pain, the emotions and thoughts, the absolute horror of the situation. I was to acknowledge that I was listening and got it. And that she was me. I started reeling. First, that seemed quite difficult, and second, why were we transitioning away from the narrative? I was convinced that I must be doing something wrong. The old voices were shouting in my ear. You will never be good enough. You are a failure. You do everything wrong. You are in trouble. You need to work harder. You’re too much. There’s no help for you. I wasn’t in SELF, so I didn’t write the letter. I couldn’t even connect with the 25-year-old Becks. I felt like I was sliding backwards quickly, which only made those voices louder.

In the next session, I felt like I was back to waging war with myself and feeling misunderstood by Dr. C, but I also knew that often happens when I don’t understand something and when I am not in SELF. So, I listened, and I tried to answer questions. I tried to think. I should’ve been feeling instead. My body and emotions were screaming. I had spent so much time hating myself, guilting and shaming myself, that I realized I had not allowed the 25-year-old to grieve. And if the 25-year-old hasn’t grieved, neither has the 26, 27, 28…and so on up to the 43-year-old me.

I realized the narrative was the story. It was what 25-year-old Becks needed to say. But it wasn’t the entire picture. I needed to HEAR. I need to let the 25-year-old feel. I need to let myself feel.

Dr. C. asked me to choose one thing and write to the 25-year-old about that. So, I did. Here is my letter:

Dear Becks,

I’ve replayed the terrible things that you’ve been through over and over in my head for years. You’ve tried to get my attention with those memories, but it felt like punishment. So, I’ve responded with rejection, blame, and my own retaliatory punishment.

My body is covered with scars. I’ve had black eyes and bruises, concussions, and been starved. I’ve done those things to shut you up. And I see now that I’ve done the very thing to you that every other person has done. When you needed someone, anyone, to stop and listen, believe and care, you fought to keep from drowning in fear, guilt, shame, and loneliness, and I silenced you.

I told you to stay quiet, and then I made you stay quiet. And so we battled – for the last 19 years.

I’m sorry that I hated you, blamed you, and silenced you. The past couple of years, I have worked so hard to listen and give you what you need. I know you are so filled with anger, fear, grief, and a confusing knot of emotions you haven’t been allowed to feel. You’ve only been allowed to feel guilt and shame because I have blamed you for everything.

It never occurred to me before that we are devastated and grieving the same things. One of the things I’ve blamed you for is the loss of Matt. The shame and guilt over the sexual relationship you had but were very much trapped in kept you from being open and honest with Matt. And he was the person you had been able to share anything with. I know it was terrible to suddenly push Matt away – to lie and hide, to avoid phone calls or deep conversations, and to stop asking him personal questions to avoid the reciprocated personal questions.

I know you wanted desperately to have someone in your corner, but you were convinced he’d be disappointed in you. And one of the worst feelings is to know anyone is disappointed in you. You spent years trying to be perfect, enough, noticed for good rather than mistakes. You were trying to make an epic comeback after being kicked out of grad school, your apartment, and friends’ lives, and this would’ve been proof that you just couldn’t hack it. I wish you had known you weren’t alone. I wish we could both trust that Matt would’ve been in his truck, headed to PA, to again show you that he was there – he would always be there.

When I read Matt’s journal from his time in GA, I was crushed. I hated you for being so blind to his pain. I hated you for not being there to prevent him from addiction. I hated you because I was sure Matt died because you cut off your relationship with him. You weren’t there for him. But I know now that you were just trying to survive. You were trying to figure out how to be there for yourself, and the only thing you felt safe enough to do was to stay in the very situation that terrified you and kept you feeling shame and guilt.

You had no way out because you didn’t have the resources you needed. How could you have the resources for Matt too?

And the person you felt safest with no longer felt safe. Now we both have to mourn that he’ll never know what happened. We never got a chance to reconcile the hurt between us. He’s gone, probably a direct result of the previous drug and alcohol use, usage that started because of his own physical, mental, and emotional pain.

The day I sat in the conference room of the ICU in the hospital and hear the doctor say Matt had no brain activity, Itied so hard not to cry. I didn’t think I had the right to be upset. I thought you ruined everything. But I couldn’t keep it in. Now, I find myself refusing to grieve what was lost, not because I think you ruined things but because I’m afraid of how much pain is still there.

I’m afraid of all the pain you feel. There’s so much there and so much I want you to know that I’m aware of. I just need you to be patient with me. I am doing my best, but as you know, emotions have never been acceptable, especially big ones.

“Stop caring so much about what other people think.” Those were the last words he spoke to me in person. He had done a lot of work by that point. It’s our turn to get there and live that. But first, we need to let ourselves grieve that loss – the first one that comes from shame, and the second one that comes from his death. We need to grieve that when he died, he wasn’t the big brother we thought we knew. He made decisions that hurt a lot – that made us second-guess a lot of things. But it’s also those decisions that we can also look at and know he would’ve loved us no matter what we told him. He would’ve understood. He would’ve told us to hop in the truck, driven us to the gas station for Mountain Dew, and he would’ve listened without a word – except maybe to say “Okay, let’s get through this. How can I help?” He was the only one I ever remember truly answering that question genuinely. And that is quite possibly the hardest loss of all.

I’ll do my best ot ask you what you need. Please do your best to tell me. I’ll never be Matt, but I’m on your side now. I want to help. You really aren’t alone anymore.

43-Year-Old Becks