This is an anniversary we shouldn’t have to mark.
Shouldn’t have to mourn.
Shouldn’t have ro relive.
The world is worse off without you. So many people broken by their loss. I am a shadow of my former self; how I am still here I barely know. One whole year of keeping on keeping on.
And that’s just me. The harlot, homewrecker, slag, slut, whatever. Never mind that I was your confidante, kept you alive for so long, talked you down when you were at the edge before.
I never met your children, but I fell in love with them anyway. I miss them and I worry for them. How they will cope without their loving father. I’ll never know, and I’ve come to terms with that, but I still worry.
A piece of everyone who loves you died with you. That broke me, and even now it is far too painful to consider. I did this. I ruined so many lives and I am truly sorry. But like so many things, no one will know. And I doubt wants to know. I shoulder the blame and I deserve the ill feeling. I have considered every possible way I could’ve stopped this outcome countless times, and I wish with every fibre of my being that I could change it. Not for me, but for your many, many loved ones.
My only consolation is that you are released from the prison of your head. That you no longer hate yourself, no longer worry uncontrollably, and no longer have to pretend that all is wonderful.
One year at peace, that’s what we should be celebrating. But life isn’t the same without you, and we are only just starting to work out how the hell we do it.