Dear Betsy, I'm gone now, but not forever. Couldn't leave without giving you the scoop, though, so listen up. First, although you will, don't blame yourself. Even as I'm writing this, I get that it's a waste of time, but I'm jumping in and trying, anyway. Again: don't blame yourself, dumbass. I wanted to do this. Frankly, I have inclinations like this all the time. It even runs in my family (along with alcoholism and the ability to make hospital corners). Shit, remember the night we met? I was about to do a swan dive off the hospital roof and you wouldn't let me. You saved me ... for a while. Now I'm saving you. It's only fair. It's also only fair to tell you that you shouldn't blame the others, either. In hindsight, letting me spend time alone talking with the dead me seems careless and risky, right? Sure ... in hindsight. But it's not their fault. I only told them the stuff they'd find most helpful, the bare minimum. The stuff that would make them feel okay about me going back into that room. And back. And back. They're as invested in saving you as I am. And they don't know a fifth of what I know. Listening to yourself tell yourself about the awful things you'll do someday is an experience, I won't deny it. But before you break off a chair leg or something and march into