Dear Amy,
I feel like I can confide in you, I hope I'm not overstepping my grounds. You've been a good friend to me these last few months despite our never meeting face to face, although I hope to have the opportunity soon. I found this letter a difficult one to pen with us being only silent voices to one and other – where does the line get drawn in such a relationship?
First, let me start by saying, what I have done was not without reason, although I'm sure my reasons won't be accepted by many, if any. I know I can count on you, though. I was given permission, well, permission might not be the right word; they had told me to do it. It's not the first time they've spoken to me; told me to do things. Most of the time they offer random, inconsequential advice, where to go or what to have on the menu, but they usually speak to me at a point of indecision which I must admit has been somewhat helpful. I welcome the small interruptions of insanity. But that's not to say I've forgotten who I am.
I'm not sure how much of my personal distresses I've mentioned before, it's nothing I'm too proud of. I understand that my anger issues will never be fully resolved, it's just who I am; nothing satisfies. I can find no peace in anything. Admittedly I am a hardened cynic with no confidence in anyone, I just eek through each day with intermittent flip outs every so often. Usually a loud scream in a baron area does the trick, although lately I'm not afforded such a luxury. The hardest thing for me is keeping my episodes from my daughter. I don't want her to see me like this.
As you know my mother has been living with me for some time now, since my father's passing. The loss was tragic enough, and to endure mom's slow decline into senility has become too much to bear. I'm allowed no concentration!
I can't think!
My life as I know it is over. I don't deserve this, do I?
Many times I would stand beside her while she sat in dad's old chair, rotting. ROTTING in that chair! I guess the feel of something of his was a comfort to her. She never moved, never made a sound, just would stare at the TV all day. I scarcely think she was even watching it half the time; everything around her ceased to exist. Even the joys of her grand-daughter, my daughter, her little Hanna wouldn't merit a reaction. I finally confronted her, but my pleas were unheard. She would just stare right through me as if I wasn't even there. I've reached the end of my rope.
Yesterday, I had attempted to fix the screen door in back, something I had put off for some time. The volume on the TV was so loud I felt the speakers might blow out. Clearly, she had moved. She had the remote, she turned it up, and in my head I only thought this was done to intentionally irritate me. With my tools in hand I approached mom and asked her if she was ok again, and again - still nothing. I finally felt my madness welling.
I let go of my tool bag and let the weight of the metal fall hard onto the ground. It caused a clatter that was ear shattering. It hurt me, but I didn't want to miss any flinch she might've given. I stifled the pain, gritting my teeth, remembering then Hanna was still upstairs. Her door was closed, but she heard it.
There was a point of several seconds I can't recall. The next thing I remember is hearing them say to me "go back" and I was standing over my mother holding the hammer in such a way it felt more like a weapon than a tool. A wave of calm came over me until I realized what I had done. The claw end of the hammer was imbedded in my mothers head. In my mind I had not done this, but all accounts will say I did. Whatever illusions, or feelings I had, had disappeared. My shock gave way to worry thinking now of Hanna, and how I couldn't allow her to see this. I wish they would speak to me now, I could use the advice.
I had gotten to her door upstairs just as she was coming out. I don't know if she had noticed my hysterics at the time, but I quickly moved her back in to her room. I could see she was worried, but my efforts to calm her only seemed to confuse her further and she began to cry. She grew more and more upset until I could no longer hold her still. All I could do was hug her. I did so tightly until she finally was quiet, and still. She will understand what happened, one day. One day I'll be able to tell her what had happened and why it was the decent thing to do.
