Dear Andy,
I know you called the office while I was gone. The one time you call, I'm not there. I blame myself for this, your death. I should have been there for you like I was supposed to be. Like I promised. It's all my fault. I wasn't there for you. You needed me and I was gone, though not how you're now gone. I wish I had done more, helped you more. I couldn't help you. You had no one else available to talk to, at least not at the time. I feel like I've failed you. I know I can't fix everybody, but I can try, and try I will. You remind me of myself. My younger self I mean. When i was your age, I was strong, funny, a good-hearted person, and you were too. That's one of the reasons I was so hell bent on helping you, Andy. And even though I didn't show it much, you grew on me. I had started to care for you as an uncle would a nephew. Another reason I was so hell bent on helping you was to stop you from doing what you ended up doing. I wasn't there for you and you didn't deserve it. I try to prevent my patients from doing what you did. Killing yourself. Suicide. But I failed! I failed you! I hope you're in a better place now, I'm sorry.
Peace,
Dr. Carrothers
P.S. You may be wondering why I'm writing this letter. I'm writing this letter because you're not the only person who needs a therapist to talk about their problems.