Dear Cherrie,

This is an open letter to yourself. An open letter is one that is open for all to see and for all to add to. The reason this open letter exists is for your own benefit, Cherrie - to clarify your thoughts in light of recent events.

This past week began with the usual "chores' - of essays, of bureaucracies, of responsibilities as a class rep, friend, employee, researcher, flatmate, daughter, "world saver", your own person. On Monday you felt insecure about your abilities. That is not unusual. You did not receive reassurance from the source you wanted.

Later that day you found out you needed a gastroscopy. You were not phased by this. It sounded fun. The sedation sounded scary at first - because you didn't like the thought of not having full control of yourself - but then you grew to like the idea of experiencing pharmacologically-induced sleep.

Someone showed they care. That was nice - and made you forget about the insecurities... for a bit. But you know they are separate issues. You are feeling in control, albeit overloaded.

On Tuesday, you went to work, came home tired, then bumped into a friend at the supermarket. It was 7, you were tired, he was "amped". It did not match. You felt bad about this later.

When you got home, you got some bad news:

** is dead

You convince yourself it is all a bad joke. You resolve that you will forgive the bad taste as long as he is alive. Late that night, after a million frantic searches, conversations and texts, you force yourself to start thinking it might be real. But maybe it isn't. Please let it not be real. You surprise yourself with your dry eyes. You continue to search the world wide web. You search your old belongings. You search your old photos. You listen to music. You surprise yourself with your first tear.

On Wednesday morning you wake at 6 to wait for a call. You wait and wait. A text arrives at 11 - "1pm" it says. You can't concentrate so you go for a walk in the park. You see little children, little families, little people on their little breaks - it's ANZAC Day. Sounds of instruments float down the grassy knoll at you. You wait. From 1 to 3 you hear everything you anticipated, but wished was not true. From 1 to 3 you asked questions that could be answered. You said things that you knew how to say. You did everything but pinch yourself so you could not disprove your adamant thesis that this was all just a bad dream.

You plan to tell others. You have to. It is their right. It is right for His legacy. His memory.

You go home. It does not feel like home.

You leave. You return again. Its 7 thirty. You can't think, so you go to sleep. You wonder why you couldn't have had work today because you feel alone.

2am you wake. You are alert. But you have nothing to do, nothing you want to think about, nothing you want to feel - so you try to sleep again. At 6 thirty the alarm sounds - you are tired. Your eyes are almost glued shut. You get up. You want to see people. You know that unlike last time, you have to let people help you. You're not sure how to ask for help, but you try anyway. You freak out about other people and other strange possibilities. You desperately make contact with lists of people to make sure they're still here.

People return calls, email sand conversations. You are grateful. But noone is listening to your story that you don't know how to tell. You think noone can understand how complicated this situation is and how complicated this relationship is. Was. You feel like your life is a recurring theme of staggered alignment, isolation and inability to appreciate people.

You spend all day struggling with figures and citations in Microsoft Word. Meaningful, worthwhile task in the broad scope of life. Not. You go home to look through photos and email again.

On Friday you wake knowing what you have to do. You keep strong. Questions from people leave you speechless. You don't know how to deal with this. But you try. Hard. You go to lectures. You chat and laugh. You find out about a forgotten deadline. You make the deadline in one hour. You forget where a building is. You find it. On your way to work you hold yourself together as you listen to those songs (ones you know will forever be connected with this week). You work. As hard as you can. Someone says something and you accidentally blurt out all your insecurities. You are shocked. But strangely glad. Someone else says something not so sensitive. You try to ignore it. You gather strength to meet everyone. They arrive early - you're taken by surprise. You breathe. They say things, you say things. You keep thinking about what you're going to say. You wait.

Hours later than anticipated, with everyone seated - the fact is stated. The fact. The truth. The reality. You can't believe you're spreading unhappiness. You are silent. You repeat this several times to various people. They react. You are silent except for soothing words that seem to come out if your mouth without any active thought. You don't know whether what you've done is right. You don't know whether how you've done it is right. You don't know.

You wonder why noone has acknowledged your closeness to Him. You start to think maybe it was all in your mind. There is someone continuously chatting about things you want to care about, but can't. You're a bit annoyed. It's raining now and it's cold. You're tired and numb. And lonely. You go home. It's midnight. You go online to stare blankly at things as your fingers click aimlessly. At links that don't lead to any comfort. You chat to a friend. She recognises your relationship. You are relieved. You are sad. You are confused. You are grateful for your friends.

But mostly you are sad.

You wake with a clarified strength. You have been through this before. You know what is important. You feel a deep sense of loss and a tinge of regret. But you are not angry. You are grateful. You are thankful. You write some more and in reading the throw-up of "poems" over the past few days you are grateful for your ability to cope that you doubted. You are still sad. You know you will be for a while.

You think: tomorrow you are 21. Tomorrow you will think about those things that made you who you are, took you where you are. You remember that this week you thought you had failed the aims of your life - to spread happiness and to help others. But you also remember your stubbornness. There are many more weeks to come. You look forward to future challenges.

You remember all those things you have seen. All such things that would ground any person. You remember they are ways to prepare you for a great leap - also known as potential for a great fall.

There are still so many things to learn. Still so many people to meet. You will never forget any experience of pain or joy. Forgetting leaves you with what but an opportunity to repeat the mistake. You're not as strong as you'd like to be, but you are stronger than you think you are. You know a truth that is eternal - people matter most.