I still have a few hidden shadows, some things I'd rather remain in the past until I trust someone enough to share these secrets that eat away at me day in, day out. The sadness lingers like a heavy, dark rain cloud following my every step and I wish, I wish for nothing more than for one day to perhaps do the right thing, just for once. Each day I awaken, I lay there in a trance wondering what life would be like if I'd done what my heart had told me to rather than my stupid bloody mind. I was always tripping myself up, digging holes deep enough to fill my body in 6ft under and then some. I'm growing tired of being this unreliable, almost immature, joke of a 35 year old man. I had to find the strength inside to change, to do the right thing.

I feel the weight of the world being carried upon my shoulders, unable to relax as I exercise my muscles, stretching as I put my two feet firmly on the ground, pushing myself to stand like it were an unearthly challenge, as if I were ill again. I try to push aside the uncertainty and anxieties I have of another new day faced with unpleasantries. I force my pursed lips into a smile as her chirpy voice nears, her head curving itself around the door, her long brunette locks bouncing as she tells me breakfast is ready. I tell her I'm just going to change, I won't be a moment and as she turns away my smile fades. My stomach churns, the vomit rearing its ugly head as I sway a little, taking in some deep breaths and it's then that I decide I can't live like this any longer.

I wander through to the kitchen, perching on the stool beside the breakfast bar and I look at the plate of food that is pushed in front of me, a heart attack on a plate but accompanied by at least one of my five a day, a tall glass of orange juice. I take a sip and I can feel myself ready to heave but I feign choking, excusing myself suddenly as I close myself in the bathroom, grasping the sink as I look at myself in the mirror, my skin drained of all colour as I began to shiver and sweat. This isn't me I whisper, repeating it over and over until the tears form in my eyes and then the fear escapes me.

Her presence is demeaning as she acts like she knows what's wrong with me, diagnosing me with a stomach bug or food poisoning. I want to swipe at her and tell her to just go away and leave me alone but I haven't even the energy. I utter the words "I'm ok," only to be amidst another one of Jen's argumentative ways because of course she's always right and so she pulls me up to my feet and acts like I'm an invalid, dragging me back to bed, tucking me in and dabbing at my forehead with a wet flannel but she's no Florence Nightingale. For a moment I hallucinate, I picture someone else, someone important to me and I pine for them. I long for her to rest against the side of my bed and sweep my hair from my face as she gently presses the cool cloth against me. I imagine her sitting in a chair next to me on a bedside vigil, the two of us watching a movie or something and then I hear Jen's voice again and she's gone.

"Go to work."

"I don't want to leave you."

"I'll be fine, I'm tired. I'll sleep it off. Go."

"Fine, but if you need anything at all just phone me and I'll be straight back. Ok?"

"Go."

I slouch down in the covers as I hear the door slam shut and open the top drawer of my bedside cabinet, pulling out a pocket filled with photographs. I flick through them all one by one, taking each of them in as I trace my nimble fingers over them lightly, the heat pricking at my eyes as the hot wet trails made their way down my cheeks. My heart had never ached so much as it had now, with each day gradually getting worse than the one before. I wish to see them just one more time but I know my time is running out. I want to do it in the least painless way I can, for their sakes I want to protect them because they're all I have left.

I struggle to my feet, taking the photographs with me, surrounding the desk I sit down at with even more pictures as I pull the pen and paper from my drawer. I open the pad and flatten the paper hovering my pen over it but I pause trying to think of what to say. It is all there in my mind what I want her to know, what I want my daughter to know but it kills me to have to do it this way. Finally I tell myself it's the only option I have left and it's for the best, for them. It is always for them.

I wipe away the tears that attempt to stain the page but I don't worry about it because then she'll know it was written from the heart and perhaps take my words more seriously. I gently fold the paper up and slip it inside the envelope neatly, sealing it shut before I address it. I take a stamp from inside my drawer and stick it firmly on the right hand corner. I slide my feet in a pair of shoes, put my coat on and zip it shut, wrapping a scarf around my neck to fend off the cold autumnal air, ready to face the day. I pick up the letter and head outside, down the lift and walk out into the street. I wander for a while in a daze until I've finally mustered up the courage to push my letter through the mail box. I grasp hold of my photo as I let it go, holding onto all that I have left, a beautiful picture of all four of us the last time we were altogether here in New York. I cried tears of happiness as I absentmindedly walked into the road, happy that I'd said everything I've always longed to. Happy that I went the way I chose to.