Letter 16.

Dear Mr. Shattered,

Talking to you reminded me of that feeling you get the moment after dropping a glass on the floor and looking at the millions of pieces shattered on the ground.  It’s usually a moment with several thoughts and emotions— the inevitable “oh shit” coupled with a little disappointment or sadness about the loss of the object and its contents, fear of injury, followed by attentiveness needed to clean up the mess, and then caution not to step on any left-over shard. 

Your glass seemed to drop 6 years ago when you were diagnosed with HIV at 19 years old.  Even though your mom knew of your diagnosis, you felt a lot of shame and kept your secret from your closest friends. I don’t think you realized how the burden of your secret set you on a spiral until we spoke.  As you sobbed, you described how HIV scared you so you stopped going to the clinic where you were diagnosed and received your medications.  Though you were adamant that your drinking and smoking weed was not a problem, it became quickly obvious to me that you used these substances to mask your emotions which led to your first DUI conviction and then the DUI that brought you in this time.  This cascade of events left you in front of me feeling every emotion that you had tucked away.  With uncontrollable tears rolling down your face I handed you tissue, you reached your cuffed hands to your face and bawled. Know that there were no words that could help you in that moment I just sat with you in silence so you would not feel alone.  When you composed yourself, I pieced together words in attempt to assure you that you were not alone, you could live a life of your choosing despite your diagnosis, and emphasized the importance of seeking the help you needed.  I think you heard me… at least, I hope you did.

As you pick up your pieces, glue them together into whatever way you please, and if you cut yourself along the way please don’t hesitate to ask for help because you’ll always be surprised by who shows up and how.  You, me, we are all picking up pieces. 

You got this,

Dr. A