The Unsent Letters

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.” -Dostoyevsky

  • Reflections on Grief: A Tribute to My Grandpa

    My dearest grandpa,

    It has been a year. More than a year now since I’ve lost you.
    I’ve just noticed that even writing “grandpa” still somehow hurts. I felt a tremor in my heart. It’s hard to describe.
    The grief… What a weird thing to experience, don’t you think? I know you went through it countless times. The one that hurt the most was your brother, wasn’t it? He gave his last breath in your arms. What an infinite connection you had to carry a lifetime.
    Mine is simpler, grandpa. I feel like an impostor about it.
    And I sometimes wish I had asked you more about your grief. Maybe it would help me now. But how could I? I chose to accept that you were carrying sorrow for the loved ones you lost. That was that. No more questions needed. No more pain needed. This was the standard that I was taught.

    I was 14 months old when my parents left me in your and Grandma’s care. It marked the beginning of a lifelong sense of abandonment, but you both made it bearable. I formed a connection with you rather than with my parents. You were there for me through everything.

    Eventually, I grew up, left the country. A grown-up doing grown-up stuff. One of the best universities in the world. I had to live up to the standard. I had to be something. I suffocated in my anxiety for years, and I neglected you. I should’ve called you more. I should’ve spent time with you instead of studying in my room during the holidays. I spent the last years of your life studying and worrying about the future by myself. I spent so much time on things that don’t matter that I lost the time I could have had with you.

    I changed schools, and I lost you. Now I ask myself, what is life even? What matters the most here? Why did I choose to be that person? Why?

    I had to take breaks writing this to distract myself. Even after a year, it feels so heavy. It is hard to carry, Grandpa.

    No one warns us about the grief as people. It is something that everyone eventually experiences, but no one openly talks about it. At least that’s how I went through it. No one warned me how painful it would be, and how that pain would forever stay, no matter what you do. It comes at the most abrupt times. I find myself thinking about what could have happened differently, at times that I should not even be thinking of something like that. I thought it would get easier. I thought I would get used to it. At least that’s what they said to me. But no one talks about the part where we start missing the ones we lost. I miss talking to you, Grandpa. I miss being with you. I still find it difficult to accept your death, but I have been dealing with it for over a year now, so I have become accustomed to navigating through it. However, I miss you more each day. This is something that will never get better over time. I will inevitably miss you. I will feel your absence every day. My eyes will always wander around the room to see you smiling on my birthdays. I will search through the audience to show you my diploma at my graduation. I will look for your teary eyes in the crowd when I say my vows. I will try to hear your laughter when I tell a joke. I will always need you. Inevitably.

    You should know that I find so much beauty in grief now, Grandpa, as something we experience collectively with every living being. We feel each other’s pain, and our hearts hurt for others. I hope your heart doesn’t hurt for mine. I hope you are free from all your pains now.
    And I hope you know how much I appreciate you. I wish I had said it more. I owe you my childhood. I thank you for everything you’ve done for me.
    I love you, Grandpa.
    Have a good time until we meet again. I cannot wait to tell you about the rest of my life.

    With love,
    Your daughter.

  • Cherished Memories of a Brother: A Love That Lasts

    Dear Brother,

    I am the age you were when you died.
    A shiver ran down my spine as I wrote that. Death and 22 just sound brutal together. I suppose you would agree.
    I was 3 that day.
    People are surprised when I tell them about you. They don’t believe me when I say I remember you. But I do. At least you should believe it. I remember how you soothed me when I cried, the games we played together, and the toys you brought me. I recall how safe and loved you made me feel. It was such a pure love that, to this day, I search for it everywhere. I look for the love you gave me unconditionally in places that won’t even accept me. I am an older sister. I know how you loved me as an older brother. My older brother. How I yearn for your kind love. How did it disappear so swiftly from the physical world?
    I remember reading a book that contained a story about the main character’s sister. She described this sister as someone so peculiar, so naive, so pure. She was so different from the rest; she was so much herself. Then, suddenly, she died in a car accident at a very young age. Just like you. The main character made sense of the situation by saying, “Some people are too impossible for this world.”
    You were one of those people. Your kind heart left its mark on a 3-year-old who still cries for you to this day.
    You were not a good fit for this world. It pains me to say that. To think that.
    I contemplate the things left undone. I think about your girlfriend you left behind. Could she be married now? Does she still miss you? I think about your friends. I watched the videos they made for you.
    People loved you. I loved you.
    When you died, they told me you were building a playground for me in heaven, and when the time comes, we would meet again. It still brings tears to my cheeks. For a very long time, I believed that, can you imagine?
    But, you know, if there is a heaven, I hope you are building the biggest playground for us, for the sake of the times we could not spend together. I hope I meet you there.
    Today, I am the age you were when you died, brother.
    Your absence hurts.

    And I love you,

    Your beloved.

  • The Search for Belonging: A Personal Journey

    Dear Mr.,
    All my life, I’ve felt out of place. I could never feel like I belonged. To somewhere, anywhere; to someone, anyone. No one.
    There must be something wrong with me. How could they be so natural with each other, and I just feel odd? How could every occasion containing other people be such a discomfort to me and such relief for others?
    Over time, I learned how to tone myself down. It helped me make friends. It helped me get somewhere. On the surface, at least. I left home, moved away to a different continent, in desperate need of satisfying the desire to belong. Then I figured it was no use. A harsh reality to face. The feeling was supposed to come from me, from inside. It wasn’t the city, the country, it wasn’t the lover; it was me. And how sad it is that I have to carry myself around everywhere I run off to.
    I lost myself in the process of conforming to society. I needed the acceptance of others to feel fulfilled. Or at least I thought.
    The year I met you, I was feeling empty, lost, and lonely. When we talked that day, it wasn’t merely a conversation for me. You somehow saw me. You saw me despite the guard I held up high and strong. You could see through me. I fought to be understood for so long throughout my life until that moment. I sacrificed so much of myself to be heard. Yet, you understood my heart with such ease that it felt surreal. It was surreal.
    How could two people meet on such a common ground that both of them are emotionally and intellectually aligned without even trying to appeal to each other? It was so natural, it felt so right.
    That is why it gave me such sorrow to know we could never be friends. I, a non-believer, prayed to God that day for a soul like you that would understand my burden, although I knew it was no use.
    Maybe in another time, at a different place, we share similar titles, we are the same age, and we’re good friends. Maybe in another lifetime, we can fulfil what our souls are obliged to. I hope to meet you in that lifetime. I hope to find myself a home there.

  • The Weight of a Father’s Legacy: A Daughter’s Reflection

    Dear Father,

    Although I wasn’t willing to admit, deep down, I knew that this day would come. The day I tell my father that I was the one who packed his things, put them in front of the main entrance, and changed the locks to the house. It was me, Dad. I wish it were not. But I did all of that.

    I’ve had this image of you in my mind as your daughter. I felt proud to have you as a father. Someone so brave, smart, honest, someone with integrity. I felt so lucky to have a dad who taught me how to be a good person, who reminded me of the importance of the good qualities I should have every day. When I was being punished for not living up to those standards, I concluded that I was the one who was wrong and I should better myself.

    The pride lasted until the day someone told me, “Your father is not as brave as you think he is.” Little did I know this exact sentence would be the hammer to finalise my crumbling reality.

    How could that be, Dad? You told me all about your stories in the army, you were so brave there. What happened?

    People say that every little girl’s first love is their father. I have to admit, I have never wanted someone like you as a lover. I’ve always felt scared to find someone like you, or even worse, become like you. I somehow found consolation in believing that you have a virtuous personality. But after learning about your affairs and all the other things, it was no surprise that we got our furniture confiscated by the bank twice, and that we lost everything. I could feel something was wrong growing up, I noticed things about you. I chose to turn a blind eye. I did not want to think. I did not want to see.

    I was the one who kicked you out of the house. A young woman kicked her old father out of their family home just like that. How cold-hearted she could be to have done this? Wasn’t this one of the worst sins in your holy book, Dad? Now you know who did it. It was not Mom. It was me. Maybe I am already as bad as you are.

    After months of staying away, I am trying to forgive you and move on. See, you’re old. You died once in my eyes, but I am not ready to lose my father for good yet.

    I am ashamed, disgusted, and I still love you as your daughter.

    But still, I cannot help but think, what if I wake up one day and decide that my life is not enough for me? What if one day my husband and my kids become something I avoid going to, and every time I’m around, I start taking my anger out on them? What if they have to carry the weight of being exposed to me? What if I could never be satisfied with my life, like you never were?

    I wake up every day and fear that today could be the day I pay for your sins. Will God make it just for the many women you hurt by punishing your daughters?

    I know you are aware of what you’ve done. Even though you refuse to accept, your mind knows, your heart feels. That is why you’re sick now. And your death will only matter to me, my sister and your dogs. Are you scared? Is your conscious eating your heart and killing you each day? Because mine does, Dad. I am scared. I am terrified. Hurt. Full of remorse.

    I’ve accepted that I will not be free of this pain for many years to come, just like how I was enslaved by it for many years that passed. I will find the strength to be myself without the fear of aligning with your shadow. One day. Some day. Hopefully.

    Love,

    Your Daughter.