Dear Random Reader,
You might be wondering why I chose to tell you of all people my innermost secrets. I don’t know too. Maybe it’s because we don’t know each other, and there’s no way you can see me; maybe it’s because by the time you would have finished reading this, I might not be around anymore. Whatever the reason, I want you to promise me that you would understand me and not judge me.
My name is Cynthia and I’m forty-one years old. A week ago, I was planning to get married, to be with the love of my life, to spend the rest of my life with the only man who had ever looked at me and saw a full woman. But now, the only person I will be with is Death, who has stretched his cold hands, waiting for me to put mine in his so we can go away.
Yes, I was planning to get married. As a matter of fact, my ex fiancé, Amobi had already come to see my parents with his people. And everything had gone well; even my mother’s elder sister, who never saw anything good in me, had beamed smiles as my mother wheeled me out to meet my suitor. Indeed everything had gone well…
Until she came back and made me see the folly of everything I’d been doing; she came back and talked some sense into me. You can call her my personal demon if you want, but I simply call her Cee. She lives inside of me. And she has made sure that happiness will always be something I dreamed of, but never touched, something I can only read about and long for, but never actually fully experience.
Now, I beg you, do not fold this letter and throw it away. I want to explain myself to you, at least to the best of my ability. You see, Amobi and I were faced with a lot of things, things that if I’d been strong enough at the onset about, we would never have gone into a relationship.
The first problem we had was that we both use wheelchairs. Can you imagine a marriage between such individuals working out?… Exactly, now you see my point.
The other problem is actually from me. I am a coward. Throughout our time together, I’ve always been the one to back out on commitments. Even when he had shown me beyond all doubt that he wanted me, I was still scared; scared of him, of the future, and most especially of myself.
I remember the first time he had asked me to be his girlfriend. I’d stared open-mouthed at him for seconds before finally telling him no.
“I… I don’t understand, Cynthia. I love you and I can bet my life that you love me too. So why don’t you want us to date?” he had asked, shock and hurt oozing from his words.
I knew why though. But there was no way I could make him see that this… happiness wasn’t meant for me. I had tried to tell him, to open up to him, but how could I explain what I didn’t fully understand?
Two days after his proposal, I blocked his number and also blocked him on WhatsApp. I knew that it was wrong, but I needed the space, I needed to breathe.
We overcame that and later started dating. He was the most understanding of men, despite my silences and unnecessary need for space, he still stuck around, loving me more than I deserved.
In order not to bore you with irrelevant details, as I know you must be busy, I’ll tell you why I called off the marriage. I did that because I was tired. Not tired of him (I can never be tired him), but I was tired of myself, of my stupidity, of my silences, and of my fears.
I decided to end it with him because I wanted to save him. I love him so much and I don’t want him to ever become like me—fearful of everything called happiness. In the real sense of what happened, I saved him from the darkness within me.
So I wrote him a letter (I was too scared to break up with him face-to-face. I knew that my love for him and his words might make me to lose my nerve). In the letter, I told him that I’d finally set him free. I hope that he finds the happiness I denied him for four years.
So my dear Random Reader, I hope you understand why I did what I did. Please do understand, as I have no one else who will.
As I drop this pen, I hope that Cee would allow me to take the fifty-nine tablets of assorted drugs I’ve set on the table. I know she might not, because she doesn’t want me to be happy at all, she might not even allow me the reprieve of dying.