It’s been weeks now–weeks of this looming sense of manic rage.
I want to punch walls. I want to break bottles. I want to tear my own flesh off of my own body piece by piece.
I wouldn’t dare lose the remaining iota of control that I have by giving in, but I’ve been setting tiny fires with my words. It doesn’t make the intrusive thoughts go away, but if nothing else, it’s damage control.
I’m furious. I’m furious at you. You left me. You bought that fucking motorcycle. I begged you not to. You bought it, and you rode it until it killed you.
And you didn’t even fucking bother to hold on long enough for me to get there and hold your hand.
Now I sit here, slowly putting pieces of your life into storage bins and ziplock bags, staring at a wall of car parts that I can’t identify and get rid of, your computer that I can’t access, your accounts that I don’t know the passwords to, your empty fucking passport that we were supposed to fill together. Even the vitamin cabinet isn’t free of reminders. The pantry still holds ingredients that were purchased according to your tastes. Stacks of junk mail still show up in your name (which isn’t as infuriating as the bills–all the fucking bills. Did you know the fire department costs money? I didn’t. Now I do.)
The world is scary. People are disgraceful. You’re not here to reason with me, to comfort me, to defend me or check me when necessary. You took your voice with you.
How dare you leave me with nothing but a box of ashes and this mess.
I know. I’m mean. This is wrong. Usually I’m good. What’s happening? Usually I can tell people “He loved riding. I never wanted to stop him from doing what he loved.” Or “I know I was being protected from something by not seeing him until he was already gone, and he was so strong–if he couldn’t hold on, there was a reason.” Or “I’m teaching myself to be more like Ron–he was so kind, forgiving, non-confrontational. I need to channel that.”
But guess what?
Anger hurts less.
And tonight I need to hurt less. So I’m mad. I’m shouting to the whole fucking world that I’m completely irate. I’m setting more fires–for all I care, this keyboard could burst into flames right under my fingertips. It would hurt less than anything else about these past 6 months.
I’m sorry though. Okay? It is not lost on me (and I hope that if you are somewhere where you can feel this, it is not lost on you either) that I only feel so deeply because of how deeply I love you. Love. Not past tense. And I’ve never had to forgive you, because you didn’t really do anything wrong. The anger doesn’t change any of that, the pain doesn’t change any of that–nothing will ever change any that.
I just hope you can forgive me tonight. I’m beyond logic and I can’t keep it down. Please forgive me.