“The pen is an instrument of discovery rather than just a recording implement. If you write a letter of resignation or something with an agenda, you’re simply using a pen to record what you have thought out.” Billy Collins
I still write letters. Sometimes the letters are not meant to be sent, and they just help me to safely express the rage, the sadness, the anxiety and all the other random things I carry around inside my heart. Sometimes the letters are to show my love. Sometimes the letters give me a different voice when my spoken voice is not being listened to, and help me avoid confrontation.
I have actually considered writing my husband a letter and telling him that I want a divorce, simply so I do not have to watch his heart breaking as I say the words.
If he had cheated on me or was abusive or did drugs, perhaps I would write that I could not stay married to him because I was worth more than that.
If he had ever expressed that he was unhappy too, perhaps I would write that we should not stay married because we deserve to be happy even if it’s no longer with each other.
If I believed he would truly read and absorb my words, perhaps I would write the truth, that he stopped romancing me and we drifted apart, and I became weary of trying to get back together by myself even though I called out for help and my voice was unheard. I would write that I can’t stay married to him because I deserve to be heard, and made to feel worth whatever it takes to make it work.
In a perfect world a letter would be enough. I could express my thoughts and be gone before he read them, and I wouldn’t hurt so much for hurting him.
But last I checked we don’t live in a perfect world. Somehow I have to find the words, and they can’t be written. Somehow I have to find the words, and that’s a daunting task.