letter, 4/14/95 two

I haven’t worked in 8 months. I CAN’T. The despair & shame & guilt & sorrow & hopelessness & despair are immense. My family thinks I’m jerking off. They’re TIRED of me being a problem. & they don’t have the wherewithal to help me. What more can anyone else say? “Don’t die. Get some help.”

and I would be fine. I feel so lost now. I
don’t know what to offer you. I feel a
little piece of your death in every letter,

only wishing I could take your pain and
pull it into me, then make my pain go away,
like I always do. I know I can’t. But

I don’t want to see you go, damnit, I
don’t want to see you slipping through
my fingers just as your letters do.

My hands are tied, and the despair &
shame & guilt & sorrow & hopelessness &
despair are immense. I want to help you,

I don’t want to be a victim, too, by having
to watch you die and not be able to do
a damn thing about it. Don’t die. Get

some help. Don’t die. Get some help.

Copyright Janet Kuypers.
All rights reserved. No material
may be reprinted without express permission.