When my dad left the rehab center in Costa Mesa, he knew he was going to have to do 90 meetings in 90 days. The 90 day period was critical for some reason, but I forgot about it until last weekend.

Rather than do my assigned readings, I read a book that caught my eye in the library a couple months ago, Nick Hornby’s A Long Way Down. I’ve never been depressed, nor have I contemplated suicide. It’s about four people who meet New Year’s Eve on a roof. Rather than jump off — as they all had intended — and end their lives, they come down and form a gang that functions more as a support group. I like Hornby’s writing, so choosing A Long Way Down over something on academic capitalism was easy.

One of the Topper’s House four, Jess, brings up the notion of the critical 90 days.

“The other night, I was going to tell you about something I’d read in a magazine. About suicide. Do you remember? Anyway, this guy reckoned tgat tge crisis period lasts ninety days.”

“What guy?” JJ asked.

“This suicidologist guy.”

“That’s a job?”

“Everything’s a job.”

“So what?” said Jess.

“So we’ve had forty-six of the ninety days.”

“And what happens after the ninety days?”

“Nothing happens, I said. “Just… things are different. Things change. The exact arrangement of stuff that made you think your life was unbearable… It’s got shifted around somehow. It’s like a sort of real-life version of astrology.”

The ninety days came and went on Friday. All week I kept telling myself that I was finally going to do something regarding the situation with my estranged ex-roommate. I’ve put off talking to her for a few reasons. The primary one was because it was too difficult. It’s so much easier to put it off.

I considered writing a letter, but discarded that idea. I completely agreed with Oso in his explanation of why he believed he was not blessed with the art of gab

It just so happens I am not gifted at the art of gab. When I get in arguments with friends, which luckily is rare, I always find myself writing them letters instead of talking it out. The art of sincere conversation has never been mine… I cannot articulate my thoughts, not as I want them to come out. So I resort to irony, sarcasm, and total absurdity. No one takes me serious when I speak, certainly not myself, which is why the written word is a special refuge for me. My cave of sincerity.

I left a comment telling the story of what my friend, Chispa, told me a few years ago. She said, “Cindy, you should just stick to writing, because when you speak it just comes out all wrong.” I was slightly offended, but Chispa was right. She’s known me for seven years, and she’s felt me say mean and off-handed remarks.

A few years later, in an Atlanta elevator looking out towards Piedmont Park, my beau at the time admitted, “I’m crazy about you.” Without missing a beat, I responded “You’re just crazy.” I didn’t even know I was being mean until I told my sister, Lori, about the conversation. Lori is my litmus test and lets me know when I’ve crossed the line. It was only then that I realized I was an ass.

That is why I write. I’m less mean and more honest. If I try to have a difficult discussion with you in person, I’ll shut down when the conversation starts getting tought. Sometimes, I don’t completely stop talking, but it takes me several minutes to make a simple point. And I do get mean, just ask el Venado.

Oso’s post and the discussion in the comments helped me to figure something out. Sure, there are pros to writing letters, but as Abogado wrote, “they tend to be calculated which makes them devoid of passion.” Oso agreed with his co-blogger, “even though writing a letter is easier for you and me, a phone call is more fair, more honest, and more meaningful for the majority. We like the written word because we can be so exact, precise, clever, detached and thought out without interruption, but it’s also a safe way to hide from our friends’ deserving emotions.”

Today, I decided not to hide anymore from my voice. I still haven’t picked up the phone, because I thought just calling out the blue might be a little rude.

I may not have complete control of my tone of voice or what words come out, but ninety days have come and gone, and I need a resolution. Hopefully it won’t take another ninety days.