Dear Katrina,

I’m just not ready. I’m not ready for all the news reports, the constant coverage and the land blasting of your memories.

I’m not ready, even though it’s been 4 years. I still can’t deal with you. I know I should. Believe me, I know. But I just can’t. I tried, really I did. I even made an appointment for PTSD counseling this year. But when I finally worked up the nerve to go, it turned out to be with a friend I went to grad school with. I just didn’t have the strength to reschedule. It was easier to get wrapped up in life and forget about you in the day to day grind again.

I’ve even tried digging through the mental wreckage myself. It’s not like I’m not qualified. I should be able to do this, or at least get the process started. But every time I do, I end up crying big, huge rain puddle tears. We both know how much I hate to cry. It just leaves my face all puffy and my nose snotty. That among others, is the reason I rarely cried during your little visit. Well that and there just wasn’t time. It’s always so much easier when there’s not time.

I know I need to deal with you soon, that I shouldn’t let another year pass. Even now writing this, I am realizing that I have battled with my eating disorder two out of the past four years in August. Hmmm, curious I’ve never put that together before now. But the raw truth is, most days I don’t think about you. So it’s just easier to forget the dark shadow that has taken up residence in the back corner of my already over loaded brain.

So this isn’t my usual post telling you to eff off, and everyone to quit talking about you, especially if they weren’t there. This year is a promise, a promise that I will deal with you before your next anniversary. That I will not let you have another year of my life, while you blacken that tiny corner in the farthest recesses of my mind. How ever small it is, you don’t deserve it. And so I will deal with you, but just not tomorrow. I will not even acknowledge you tomorrow. I will allow myself and therefore deny you, tomorrow. It’s the least I can do for both of us.

Sincerely,
Erika

PS: I still think you are a whore.