One Year

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.

Going Solo

The first time you decided we must end things, you emailed me explaining why. One reason you gave was because if our colleagues found out, we would be vilified and hated. We’d lose friends and life would become difficult. The very next time I saw you, you seduced me and suddenly we were back on again. This happened 3 or 4 times: you’d end it, and a maximum of 36 hours would pass before you’d find a reason to contact me and suddenly we would be back on again.

I know this was because we were drawn to each other, soul mates, more in love than it is possible to explain. I couldn’t function without you, and vice versa. But each time, I took a step closer to depression. Sometimes I got strong and told you to get out of my life this time, find a new job and let me move on. I suspect this hit you hard and I know that one time when I did it, you ended up in the psych unit, although you never confirmed it was part of the reason why.

But now you are dead, ashes in an urn somewhere, and I am here, trying to live without you. Ostracised from our work colleagues for exactly the reasons in your email. Watching them meet up and have happy times on Facebook throws so many conflicting emotions at me, and it makes me feel so low sometimes that I am strongly considering closing my account.

They are moving on, living life, and I am not. I should, but I feel I shouldn’t because I think they think I shouldn’t. I’m sure they hate me, I know at least one blames me for your death. I’m sure they wish it was me under the train. Part of me wants them to know how ill I am, that I am suicidal now and that I take the same drugs you did. But maybe that will make them think that I should be like this, “serves her right”. I’m sure they don’t think of you the same way they do me. And that’s purely because you are dead and I haven’t done it yet. But it takes two to fucking tango. You pursued me. I defined that fucking line and you pushed to cross it. I’m not saying I was pressured or non consenting, but it all came from you, and yet I am the one vilified, hated and wished dead.

There are two things I would do if I could turn back time, and one is that I would stand strong behind that line and refuse to cross it. Refuse to give you my address when you asked for it. Locked the door and not let you in when you arrived. Not given you a hug when you gave me your gorgeous sad eyes. And not looked up when you kissed my hair and said you wanted to do more. June 15th. I should have been strong and not let any of that happen.

But the fact of the matter is, SM, that it was one of the best days of my life. Or, as you described it, wonderful.