Indistinct Mumblings of an Unsound Mind

Dear Tara,

It’s that time of year again. It always comes so fast and hits me almost by surprise. Your birthday is coming up and I still can’t forgive myself for letting you fade away into the night. What kind of person am I, who can’t even care for the ones he loves?

These things wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been selfish. I should have been there for you and I wasn’t. Too wrapped up in the present, content with the knowledge that you’d always be there and now you’re not. It’s been five years. My daughter is in first grade and my son is learning about the Greeks and the Romans. She’s a spunky little girl, pretty in pink but not afraid to get down in the mud. You’d love her. She’s a brat, just like you. On the other hand, my son is growing up a bit meek. He stands up for what’s right and always tries to follow the good path, but he’s so easily distracted. Remind you of anyone? They’re the best kids anyone could hope for, and I love them more each and every day.

My relationship is falling apart. It seems like they always are. Can’t remember the last time I wasn’t faking happy, but it was a long time ago. She’s here for the money. I’ve given her all my love, but it’s just not what she wants, you know? And that sucks, because I’ve accepted that there’s no one else like you out there, and I’m willing to settle without begrudging anyone for that, but it hurts to know that she’ll always be looking for the bigger, better, deal. She’s afraid to love, too. Can’t say it, and we know that matters to me. Doesn’t act like it. I mean, you asked me to do a bunch of crappy things for you, but at least you asked. Things weren’t just expected. And failing was an ok option. I didn’t have to be perfect. Hell – I didn’t have to be anywhere close to perfect.

I’m running low on friends. This charade of happiness, it takes everything to keep it up. If people only knew how close I am to losing it each and every day, I don’t think they’d ever let me see my children again. People keep dying or just leaving, and I can’t bear to unload on new, unsuspecting individuals. They don’t need our levels of strife. Isn’t that how we always stuck it out? No one needs to know about the pain because it’s not going to do them any good. We were determined to make the world better, and I still am. Either that, or I just give up and join you.

Unfortunately, that’s not an option yet. Sara’s boyfriend showed some promise, at first, but he is definitely not replacement father-figure material. Besides, I already promised them I’d live forever, and you know how I am with my promises. But some nights I just sit up, till 3 or 4 AM, crying. This sucks. The only people in life that knew me are gone. The only people left in my life are the ones that I’ve sheltered from myself. Even Killa is held at a distance now, and I know you liked everything I told you about her.

I can’t stop thinking about giving up, Bratgirl. All I want to do is lie down and watch the world crash in around me. Every waking moment is plagued by the thought that this will never get better. I now understand how you felt. Things don’t get better. They stay the same or get worse. I have no one to trust. The last time I broke down, Tarl reported me to CPS. For fuck’s sake, I asked him to take my kids because I knew my mind was breaking. Now if I feel a psychotic episode coming on I have to reign everything in until I’m alone and can hide somewhere safe.

All I want is to be loved. Unconditionally. If that happens, I really don’t care about much else; but you already knew that. I’m sorry. I will never forgive myself, even though I’m sure you would have. I miss your hugs, and your stupid, greasy hair. Most of all I miss crashing with you. You always had the most comfy furniture, and TV was never a requirement. I miss you so much.

My friends have told me that the pain changes with time, that it might even lessen or fade out altogether; just like the pain when Justin died, or when my Dad died. They’re wrong. It’s an ache, like a phantom limb. It just gets worse every year, growing with every moment like the burn of holding your breath 3 feet from the surface. Every time I think I’m getting used to it, it stings just a little bit more. A piece of me died with you, and there’s no recuperation from death.

I hope you’re going to have a bitchin’ birthday party this year. You know what I’ll be doing. I’ve picked a couple of oldies and one new song this year. Not that it matters, dead bodies can’t hear things anyway. Happy Pre-emptive Birthday, Love.


Categories: Journal

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