I want as much of you as possible in the few tomorrows that we have left.
you’re in the fake flowers sitting in the cracked vase on the kitchen table
in the aisles of laundry detergent in the grocery store
the paper trimmings that have fallen onto the floor
in the crookedness of the chunky clock hanging
even in the red dyes of hawaiian shirts.
yet you’re not here at all.
My Dearest Catalina, I'm trying not to start out with apologies. I miss you (I told myself not to say that, too). Though I do miss you, I feel that it is implied at this point; I miss sending you things in the mail. I miss when we would pass our writing in folders. But I don't regret that we grew (even though it meant growing apart); I regret not being there for you. I miss our big dreams. I swear they were the only things getting me through most nights. I hope your dreams have grown. Always, M
You’re breaking my heart, dear. In the best way possible. Maybe that doesn’t make sense. But it’s a wonderful kind of breaking. It’s the way pop rocks tingle in your mouth, the thousands of pieces reminding you that everything is still there despite the fact that the neon green and black bag is in the recycling bin.
I miss all that was, too. But there is still so much that will.
I don’t want you to regret not being present. Because although you may not have always been there, you were never ever gone. And that was always more than enough. I hope you know, that for as long as I’m physically existing, I’ll never be gone either.
My dreams have grown. And they continue to. You should know that you were part of that. I want you to know that you’re the one who made me realize there is a world that exists beyond my own.
You’re the bravest person I know.
Today we’ve officially had over a hundred hours of therapy together. Which involved a total of five therapists. Initially, I thought that maybe we just had a few therapists that were incompatible with understanding our relationship but now it’s quite evident that you’re just an asshole who doesn’t want to be helped. And that’s something I’ve finally allowed myself to admit. It’s easier now for me to separate myself from you now knowing that you’re the one who fucks everything up. Every. Single. Time.
You keep me up until three in the morning with your endless rambles on how horrible the world is. You put ice in every drink of mine hoping that I too, will find normalcy in feeling numb. You threw away everything I gave you not even bothering to say thank you. You laughed every time I tried to do something for myself. You told me I didn’t deserve the love everyone tried giving me, so you rejected everyone who I tried welcoming into
our homemy home. You compared me to every person we met. How much skinnier and prettier and smarter and more talented and thoughtful and creative they were. And despite the fact that I’ve never been a person who asked their friends whether I look fat in something, you always told me I looked like a beached whale no matter how hard I tried to drown my body in fabric. I never even asked for opinion in the first place.
I never welcomed you into my life. I didn’t approve of you calling me at midnight. It wasn’t me who said it was okay to go out for lunch with you and have you bullshit me into believing your lies. I wasn’t the one to call us an ‘item’. I never told you to tell my parents or friends or random party guests about us. I didn’t even say yes when you proposed or “I do” at the altar. So here I’m going to establish something for anyone who is fortunate enough not to know you:
Being married to Depression is fucking hell.
there is only half an hour left to my birthday and I’m hoping that the mail woman is struggling to make her last rounds through the unsteady rain or that my land line was cut by accident when they meant to cut the drunk neighbors who forgot to pay their bills or that my cell phone ran out of room the night before so it couldn’t collect any more voice mails. I’m even hoping that maybe the date slipped past you while you listened to the radio on your way to work. Because I’d rather you forget the to simply not care.
I handed you a mix cd as we said our tear-less goodbyes. It was the first mix I gave you that didn’t have a single trace of rock ‘n roll. This would break your heart, just like you broke mine.