February 21, 2010
[Note: This is a letter to my, who in 2006. He lived about 20-30 minutes away from me, at the time. Since I grew up in the midwest, I didn’t often see him, until I moved close to him in the southwest U.S., in 2005.]
Dear Uncle Ryan:
Sucks that you’re gone. It was really cool to hang out with you in 2005 and 2006. I’m so thankful that we had a chance to get to know each other a little bit. Your life sounded so interesting and I wanted to know more.
I could have spent more time with you, but I was so absorbed in caring for Matt [ex-husband]. Things got miserable and I disappeared into an online fantasy game. Then you died after we moved [to a northwest suburb].
I wonder why you died, for real. So many guesses and lies. Not enough facts in the [my paternal surname] family. Lots of pain in that family. I’m sure you would understand my hesitancy to talk with any family members. I don’t trust them. It seems like none of them are adults—we act from our inner child. But I’m healing now. I’m doing a damn good job of it, too.
I am sad that you are gone. Tears are in my eyes, now. But I feel very thankful to have known you a little before you died. Gratitude saves me from the sadness, perhaps.
I did not attend your funeral. I fear my father. He is a monster in my eyes—constantly hurting me. To others, he might feel like annoying fingernails on the skin—but to me, he is a dangerous whip that harms me at any chance he can get. He is a siphon of my life force—draining and killing slowly. That is what I am trying to change and heal.
I’m no longer with Matt. I left him, convinced I could find love through someone else. When that failed, I took a deep look at my life and realized that I am capable of giving myself love. That is wonderful to experience, now.
I believe in reincarnation. If you ever want to come back as a cat or dog, I’ll try to find you and take care of you. And if you are a gay cat or gay dog, I will support you and care for you and not make fun of you. [Note: My uncle was gay, if you couldn’t already tell, by that last sentence.]
I feel good. I’m taking care of myself and hope that your soul can also experience the joy of healing and overcoming trauma. Maybe all our souls have trauma and we all need to heal. We’re not alone in our suffering. Come find me, Uncle Ryan, if you want help. Make sure I’m an adult, though. My soul can sometimes be lost, as a kid, in these lives. It is my wish to help others, in this life. I enjoy helping myself and nurturing myself.
I bought a piano and I’m playing again. I will play for you if you ever want to visit me somehow—either as a ghost or reborn again.
Sammy, my cat, is doing well. She’s great. I feed her organic cat food and I put loving thoughts into the water in her water bowl. I never hurt her. I only take her outside for rides in the cat stroller if she wants to go—never forcing her.
Ran out of room [on this page of the journal]! I’ll stop here. Love ya, Uncle Ryan!