I woke up remembering that I would have been seeing my counsellor today, if I hadn’t run away the first time. It might sound stupid, but I missed her. I know I haven’t even met her yet. I got a letter from her a few days ago, saying she was sorry not to have seen me on Wednesday and that she’ll wait to hear from me — I got it out and looked at it again. And I decided to call her before I even got dressed, hoping to get her answer-phone. She picked up, and after a second’s silence I said I was sorry to call her so early. Apologised for not coming the first time, said I’d pay for it. Asked if she’d see me again. She said she could see me next Wednesday at the same time, would that be OK? I was relieved that she was still willing to see me. She said she looked forward to meeting me and to just give me a ring if I couldn’t make it. I can’t stand her up a second time. The only reason I won’t be seeing her on Wednesday is if I’m not here any more. The thought of the appointment waiting for me on the other side of this week is strangely comforting, like being at work all day and knowing I have a new book of photographs waiting for me at home.

I wrote a note for everyone today. To Abbie and Dad and Red and Zoë and Sara and even Dan… one each, so I can say the different things I wanted to say. I wasn’t sure how to do it, and in the end I went out and bought cards for them — a different one for each person. I was in the shop for an hour. I know how long it can take me to put things into words, so I thought I’d limit myself to a couple of sentences — I tried to make them simple, honest. I put a couple of standard sentences into each one — ‘I’m doing this because I’m not very good at living — I’ve really tried, but I know this is the right decision. I want you to know that you are not to blame in ANY way and that you wouldn’t have been able to change anything if you’d known.’ I finished them all with, ‘Sorry,’ and, ‘All my love, Ruth.’ Here they are.

Abbie: I can’t tell you how much I appreciated you being there for me when Mother died, and for confronting me about my cutting. I know it was hard for you to do, but you did it anyway. For everything you’ve done, thank you.

Zoë: I’m really proud of you and everything you’ve achieved over the last couple of months. I loved you coming to stay with me, I loved that you trusted me. Thank you.

Sara: I feel privileged that you shared what you shared with me, and listened so carefully to me. And thank you for all the fun we had at photography class.

Dan: You might not even remember me, but I was always aware of you at work, and you gave me comfort for a long time. I’m grateful for that. Thank you.

Julie: Thank you for meeting me that day and for being honest with me. Thank you for looking after Dad all these years — I’m glad he’s got you.

Milly: Thank you for teaching me. Thank you for encouraging me, it felt wonderful.

Dad and Red were much harder. I wondered if I should write them longer letters; there was more I wanted to say. But then I thought maybe they should be the ones who see this journal. Warts and all. It might help them to understand. So in the end, I just wrote a card for both of them with all of my love in it and told them to read the journal if they wanted to look for answers. I don’t know if they’ll find any here, but at least there are more words. You know I love you, don’t you, Dad? You know I love you, Red? Don’t ever doubt that. Don’t ever think that if I’d only loved you a bit more, I wouldn’t have done it. That’s just not true. I know that I need to make a decision for myself. It’s not fair to live just because you’d be upset if I didn’t. You’ll all get over it. You can live without me. You’ll survive; you’ll be happy again. Surely it’s better to live because I want to live, or die because I want to die, rather than stick around for someone else.

I spent my last (?) evening in my flat looking at photographs. Whatever happens next, this feels like the end of the something. I put on some music and got all of my books off the shelves, twenty or thirty of them. I looked through all of them, paying more attention to the photos I’ve spent time on, the ones that asked me in and let me live in them for a while. People. Things. Places. Moments. Stories. All moving past in a blur of beautiful colours, as if my whole life were flashing before me. And then, last of all, Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller, hanging on to life with her beautiful fingertips.

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