Six Years

Dear Patrick,

It's been six years since you've been gone. Six years since life as I knew it changed in ways I can't even describe, yet stayed mostly the same as far as most people can tell. I suppose I should ask how you are, but I won't get an answer. So much has changed since the day my heart shattered into a million pieces, yet so much has not.

 I've lost my voice to tell you exactly how though. You were my reason for writing. I wanted you to know me. I wanted you to know it all, good, bad, ugly, whatever.

 A lot of why I poured it all out publicly, but really for your eyes only, was because I wanted to show you that I wasn't too good for you, that I had shitty things about me too and that you shouldn't feel like I didn't deserve to be dragged down by you. Imagine how it felt when I realized I only ever stayed with shitty people for the exact same reasons you gave for pushing me away. I just wasn't as honest with myself about it.

Then there were the times I'd convinced you to act on us, to let go of your fears, but I'd back away.   I was waiting for the perfect opportunity, so sure of how right you felt, so sure that life was supposed to provide that feeling forever that I could wait to have uncomfortable conversations and wait until financial shit would've been easier.  Obviously I was wrong about that too.  I was wrong about a lot of things.

I don't have anything new to report, no soul baring, hoping you'll see it all as I mean it, no great epiphanies, no voice calling out to you.

No, wait, that's not exactly true.  I had a mini-epiphany regarding how I ended up here, with someone who is so not right for me -- survivor's guilt.  Twice.  But all that's meant is that I'm barely surviving.  Diminishing your life because you feel guilty for being alive is probably the exact opposite of what you should do, huh?  I can't climb out of that hole yet, apparently I'm afraid of the sun.  And probably climbing.  And heights.

Anyway, two weeks ago, I entered that bar where you spent your last night alive.  My breath caught less walking in that door than it did when I drove near your old job for the first two years you were gone.  I just needed to briefly close my eyes and take a deep breath to go on.  I wasn't in a position to explain anything about you, so I pretended it was fine, that I hadn't walked where you walked as you had your last beer and I wasn't walking through the same door you walked out, into the rain, with no clue that it'd all be over within an hour.  It wasn't as hard as I'd imagined it would be.  Yes, I'd prefer to not have to pretend, to be with people who'd understand or care, but that's not happening now, so I'll take "not that hard to pretend I'm OK" because it is a huge improvement.  I never would've been able to do that before.

Part of me laments the loss of being that shattered, because it's all of you I have left.  A bigger part of me knows it's time to accept that the pieces will never be glued back together perfectly, but, damn it, they're dry and holding fast, I don't need to stay in one place for fear it's all going to fall apart anymore.

So, I guess I'm saying, "Goodbye" again.  I enjoyed having you as my muse.  You've been my only one, so I guess I should thank you for the years you gave my thoughts a voice.  I do appreciate it, but it's time accept that it's gone now.

Love Always,
Me.