I am glad I wrote them letters. I want to write them more letters. I want to keep telling them how much I love them a thousand million ways, constantly, every day. I want to send them a billion more texts. I want to grab their hands and squeeze them. I want to look and look at them until we are old and wrinkled and my cataracts keep me from seeing their beautiful faces. The PTSD had always told me I am alone. That I am unlovable. That I am toxic. But now, it is clear to me: That was a lie. My PTSD clouded my vision of what was actually happening.
