Dear Mom,

Dad called today. Apparently, Donovan was sympathetic enough to write him a letter instead of texting or calling. It gave me time to be prepared for his anger, but the anger didn't come.

He asked if I was okay and even though his voice was tense, he didn't ask what I thought I was doing.

He didn't ask about the money or demand that I come home, and I'm not sure how I feel about that or whether the way I feel even makes sense.

At least he called, which means he cares. He didn't demand I come home, so he's not being controlling. There was just so little emotion in his voice.

Donovan and Darrah were truly concerned about me traveling alone, and Dad asked where I am and left it at that.

I keep telling myself he's trying to respect my decisions, but that doesn't deflate the small bubble of hurt that came into existence when he said goodbye after two minutes of talking.

Has he given up on me? Was my leaving the last of a long string of decisions he just can't condone?

I wouldn't blame him, you know. I'm not sure all of this isn't something I'll regret, but there's something deep inside me pushing me on to the next rest stop, the next campground, the next state.

I can't go back now. I just can't

You would understand. You might not like it, but on some level you'd know why this is necessary for me. You always knew me better than I knew myself.

Who is going to be my guide now? Who can I trust to help me stick to the straight and narrow?

If Dad had stayed on the line, I could have told him about Idaho.

I drove through part of it in the dark, which I regret. But I ended up in Wallace, and since it was dark, I stayed at the Wallace Inn instead of looking for a campground. The older guy manning the desk was so kind and loaded me up with brochures and fliers about the town.

There's a historic bordello here. I'm not sure what I was expecting from a canyon town in Idaho, but between the bordello museum and the mining museum, I fully enjoyed my stay.

All the driving has left me feeling like I'm losing muscle at an awful rate, so I've been taking hikes whenever I can. This time I tried the Pulaski Tunnel Trail. It wasn't too difficult, and the country is beautiful. It reminds me of Colorado a little bit, but greener. Almost anywhere is greener than where we lived.

I also checked out Coeur D'Alene. The lake is gorgeous, and the McEuenPark kept me entertained for several hours.

But that's enough about where I've been. It's late, and I'm curled up writing this letter, with my camper parked in a little town called Stanley. I think this town may have less than a hundred people in it, and they barely even noticed me.

Did you ever get to the point in your life when your hands just didn't want to move? Did you ever lay down and just have to fight to get back up?

I feel like I have always been here, and always will be here. Like there's no escape from the exhaustion.

Even worse, there's no escape from the thought that's been plaguing me for days now.

This is my life. Not the wandering around the country finding adventures wherever I can, but the exhaustion. The ongoing feeling that something's missing and I'm never going to find it.

I know the theory is I'll find a way out of the darkness that is my existence, but how can I prove it? How can I keep looking for it when there's no light on the horizon?

This is my life now, like a blind person holding my hands out in front of me while I walk tentatively ahead. I wonder how long it will take me to adjust to a life without light.

I’m sorry to be so gloomy. I know it’s not what you would want. You’d tell me to keep my chin up and eat healthy things and get exercise. You would tell me to look beyond myself and find someone else to live for.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to look beyond the selfish darkness and see the other people who live in hurt around me. Maybe something good will come out of all this.

But for now, my hands are held out, hoping to not run into anything too big for me to handle. Hoping I don’t fall off a cliff.

I love you.

Bo.

Finding someone else to live for is tempting. I think maybe for a little while Mom lived for me, and it’s hard to imagine what that would feel like choosing to live because you have a tiny daughter who you love.

There’s no way I’m having a kid just to have someone to live for. I am not that self-sacrificial. Besides, I believe you must learn to live for yourself before living for another person will do you any good. Living for another might give you the push you need to learn your own worth and purpose again, but it’s not a strong enough motivator by itself to keep you alive.

What do I know? Lying here, with a vague yellow light shining through my window, staring at the ink on the page.

All I really know is that Dad isn’t waiting for me to come home. The shortness of his phone call told me that. He is not the person to live for. Meg has Tom and Darrah and Donovan have each other. Dad has friends, but he lost his best friend. If I was to live for anyone it would be him. I feel his love for me and interest in me waning as the days go on. I feel his disappointment and anger pointed in my direction like a loaded gun, and I believe he has given up on me. I’ve broken his trust, and he’s let me go.

And go I will, though I don’t know where. I’ll go till I can’t anymore, and then I’ll stop. Definitively stop.