How to Paint Our Skies

How to Undress a Conscious

Dear Fin,

    Ever since your confession, I must admit that I have been feeling so much better. For the first time, being alive doesn't feel like so much of a burden. I don't feel overly happy, but I do feel content. And for the moment, that is more than good enough.

    I can't really describe what hearing you say all those things made me feel. You can't even begin to understand what they meant to me. I thought I wasn't good enough because you, the most beloved thing in my life, told me I wasn't. I've lived the last year believing that I'm a good for nothing piece of shit because you and those words . . . your words erased all of it. For the first time, I'm excited about my life. I'm painting and have friends and I don't feel so shitty.

    Since your confession, though, I've found myself thinking a lot about my time in the hospital. I haven't thought about it in a long time, even though my time there and what led me there affect every day of my life.

    As you know, I jumped off a bridge. I landed in the water, my lower back hitting the water with a crushing force, where luckily passing by boaters spotted me. They retrieved me from the water and gave me CPR before calling an ambulance; the doctors said that if they had waited a moment longer, I probably would've died. I owe them my life. I met them once, a little while after I left the hospital-after I started writing the letters, actually, I just didn't want to mention it because I don't usually like talking about the accident- and they're very sweet, we're still in Christmas card contact.

    Anyways, I arrived at the hospital. I was in an induced coma for several weeks and when I woke up, I was surrounded by family and notified that I broke almost every bone in my body. I remember sobbing; not because of the shock or because I was happy to be alive, but because I wished for nothing more to be dead.

    Treatment was really hard. All of my broken bones healed under the touches of doctors, but I had to have surgery to fix a lot of the damage on my face and lower back. I had to learn how to walk again; the doctor said I was lucky I hadn't been paralyzed, a fact I'm more than just grateful for. I'm not sure if you know, but I did receive some permanent damage: a limp so seriously bad that I'm forever burdened with a cane.

    After I was physically capable, I was placed into a psyche ward. At first, it was pretty embarrassing to be there, I felt like I was caged in with a bunch of lunatics. But I quickly learned that it wasn't crazy people who were locked up in there; it was the people who understood the difference between survival and living more than anyone else I had ever met. These were the people who shared the burden of my depression with me, who held my anxieties, who fed me with more than bread and water but with their blood.

    So when I got out, sure the pain was still there. It was like a poison creeping into my veins, venom caught on my bones, but I was alive. And because of them, it was bearable. Sometimes, I even visit them still.

    I also have a confession to make: the first day I wrote the letter, the day I saw you again, was the day I was released from the psyche ward. Mom, Dad, Bea, Claude, Jeanine and her husband –the last two probably only came because they thought it was mandatory, I wished they weren't there- were taking me out to dinner to celebrate my release. That's when I spotted you.

    For a long time, I've thought I wasn't good enough. I was getting better, but . . . something you have to understand, Fin, is that I'm really sick. Sometimes I get so depressed that I can't eat or sleep or breathe properly. Those are the nights Bea and Claude or one or both of my parents will come to my apartment and take care of me like I'm a child and I'm grateful for their company in my darkest and most vulnerable of moments.

    That's why these letters matter. I told Bea about this and she amended me for it, she told me that when her parents died that she did something similar, it was the only thing that really helped her understand that they're gone but still stay connected to them in a healthy way. These letters do a similar thing to me. They've helped me save myself, they're my own little heroes, they remind me that I don't have to be Lois Lane and I can indeed be Superman. So give me my cape back, Luther.

        I thought for the longest time that if I found out why you left, maybe I could heal. Maybe I could fix what was wrong with me and win you back, maybe you could love me again and I could finally love myself. I've learned that not every question has to be answered, not every riddle has to be solved, sometimes just the mere fact that we tried is good enough. I understand that now. I'm good enough. I don't need you or these letters.

    But giving up these letters . . . well, that'll be hard.

    I don't really know if I'm ready yet.

    Maybe just a little bit longer.

    And finally, let's talk about that apology of yours. To be honest, Fin, I don't think I'm quite ready to be friends again, not yet. When we got together . . . I fell in love with your mind. I delved into your brain and loved the crooked mess that I found. I allowed you to undress my conscious, to make love to my mentality. And I can't just forget about when you tore down my walls, revealing my thoughts, and splattered them all over the walls from the world to see.

    But maybe, just maybe, we're getting somewhere.

    -Annalise

*

Hey Reader!

      Chapter's Song: "Home" by Mumford and Sons. Its about someone who is lost and is trying to find home and tries to kill themselves to find heaven. That's Annalise. That's any lost soul who has ever felt like they don't belong. If that's you, don't be shy, drop a comment. I understand and I love you and I want to talk to you if you want to talk to me.

    I love you guys! Thanks for reading.

    Love Your Favorite Liar <3