A friend of mine once asked if I still have nightmares about my parents.
In truth, I never have.
Even though I lost them within three weeks of each other when I was twelve years old, even though it was after growing up under their struggles with alcoholism and addiction, even though I inherited my Cluster B personality disorder and bipolar I from one or both of them, my dreams about them are always bittersweet. Whenever they visit me in my sleep, it’s to catch up on everything they’ve missed over the years.
This isn’t to say I don’t hurt, or that I’ll ever feel better about their loss – merely that sometime between then and now, I learned how to coexist with my trauma. Indeed, it is my hope this series of open letters to my parents will bring me that much closer to them as I fill them in on the world which has since passed them by.
And for everyone reading this, may I inspire you to make space for your own grief, as well.