Letter #1 -- Allow me to Introduce Myself

Hi Piglet 👋

I can imagine you reading this letter, now, laying down on your bed with the curtains closed, head pounding, eyes unable to focus. You’ve experienced so many emotions today — all of them dark — that now you’re running on fumes.

You’re twelve years old at this stage, and today is the worst day you’ve ever had. But don’t panic. You’re not in trouble. Nobody will know what really happened today until you’re ready to tell them. 

This weird letter — the one that just fluttered down from the ceiling as if by magic — is from me, an older version of you. Confused? I don’t blame you. I’m the fifty-year-old version of you. And I’ve been thinking about you a lot, lately. 

Don’t believe me? I don’t blame you. If a magical letter fluttered down from the ceiling, addressed to some guy called Piglet, I’d be wary too. But let me prove I’m you. 

It’s a Sunday afternoon and you’re lying under a thick blanket. It’s a bright summer’s day, and you don’t understand why you’re shivering so much. Your carpet is pale pink, which you hate. Mother should have tried harder to hide her snickering as she tried to convince you it was salmon. There’s an oversized bookcase against one wall, crammed with every book you’ve ever read. You love this bookcase. The books in that bookcase are more than just books… they’re friends. You cherish the specific mix of emotions you feel every time you pick up one of those books. Nobody can touch those feelings. They’re yours, and always would be. 

Still not convinced? Well, the next bit of proof will blow your mind. Underneath your bookcase is a chest of drawers. It’s white, with flecks of black showing through from a poor paint job. When you open the third drawer in the top row all the way, you expose a small ledge. Adult fingers can’t get into that space, but yours can. You’re twelve and bright beyond your years. You worked hard to find the perfect hiding spot. That ledge is where you keep your stories; the ones you’re too frightened to show anyone. They’re good stories. I still have them, all these years later. I keep them in my bedside table, along with all my other special items from over the years.

I read one of our stories every so often and think, wow… these are great. But you already know how good they are. You don’t hide them from Mother because they’re terrible. You hide them because you’re proud of them. I’m so sorry you had to hide them, little guy, but I’m so grateful you didn’t destroy them.

How’s the headache? Still shivering? You’re experiencing shock. It’s not uncommon when people try to commit suicide. The headache and shivering are perfectly natural. It will pass. Let’s take a few minutes to talk about something else.

I’m sitting here at my desk, and the love of my life is watching Italian television in the other room. We’ve only been studying Italian for a few weeks. He now watches TV without the subtitles, while I struggle to remember how many u’s are in buongiorno (hint, it’s one). I’m taller than you are now, but have somehow shrunk a little from the heights of my 30s. I have developed muscles from a lot of hours in the wrestling gym, and I still have a full head of hair! Thankfully Dad’s baldness skipped a generation. 

Okay, back to you. 

One day you’re going to be much, much older, and you’re going to look back on this horrible day you’re living now. You won’t remember what led up to that day, because our brain erases painful memories to protect us. But you will remember the day itself, in excruciating detail. The pain fades over time, but the memories never fade.

You’ll remember that, through some rare alignment of events, you had the house to yourself for the entire day. You’ll remember sitting in the world’s ugliest couch with a kitchen knife, working up the courage to gut yourself. I don’t know why we never considered slitting our wrists or cutting our throat… we were fixated on gutting ourself like a Japanese warrior.

God, we hated that couch… it symbolised all that was broken in our family. You sat there in that ugly leather chesterfield, pressing the point of the kitchen knife against your stomach, sweating. You thought you were sweating because of the heat and humidity… we weren’t allowed to use the A/C when we were home alone because it was a waste of money. But it was the intense effort. You wanted to press harder. You wanted the knife to end your pain. You just couldn’t do it.

Finally, drenched in sweat, you went to the kitchen and placed the knife back in the knife block, then picked up a fork. You took that fork and ran to the power outlet in the living room. Ran! You jammed that fork into the power outlet with no hesitation. But there was no jolt of electricity… just a shower of sparks. The power went off throughout the entire house, but you were still alive. You sank to your knees in front of the dead power outlet, holding on to the fork which was still inserted in the outlet, and noticed all the burn marks in that awful carpet from the sparks. You knew there’d be consequences, and that’s when the shivering began.

But you don’t need to worry. Everyone will come home soon, and Dad will fix the fuse box. “It’s just one of those things,” he’ll say, after you tell him you don’t know why the lights went out. Nobody notices the tiny burn marks. Nobody notices your pain.

You’ll remember all your feelings from today, most of all. So many feelings! Disappointment in yourself for having failed to ease the pain. Loneliness. And the ever-present ineffectual rage. Today’s suicide attempt wasn’t a whim, nor a cry for help. Today was the real deal. You don’t turn to anyone for help, because there’s no-one to turn to. You feel you only have one option left, and you can’t even do that right.

But tonight, and every night, when you’re drifting off to sleep, imagine me in your corner. I’ll be there, cheering you on. Go, Piglet, Go! You’re my special little guy. I’ll be there for you when there’s nobody else. Let me be that person for you, that I never had. I’ll fight for you, Piglet, and we’ll win. How do I know this? Because I’m still here.

Today’s events weren’t your fault. You’re not broken. You may have been holding the knife, but somebody else placed it in your hand. Everything leading up to today was done to you. You’re not responsible for any of this… not your actions, nor your fears, nor your rage. Those secret thoughts and wishes you keep hidden away in those stories in that hiding space aren’t proof that you’re a bad person. It’s all her fault. Mother did this to you. She did this to both of us. 

I have a lot more to tell you and we’ll get through it all, but, for now, all you need to know is this: You’ll be fine 🤗

All my love,

Big Pig 🐖

P.S. Expect more letters. 

P.P.S. Don’t worry about the pig stuff, I’ll explain it one day.