Thoughts on his suicide – part two The angry letter

And so she says I should be angry at you.

And somewhere, deep inside I am.

In some small, small way, I hate you for what you did.

It was so selfish and cruel.  I went through the anger pretty fast.

It came in waves mixed with tears and pain and numbness, but it was there.

Did you not even think what this would do to me?

You had to know there were people who loved you, even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted.

Even I know that much.  That I am loved, but not how I wish I would be.

I am mad that you got yourself back into the bad stuff.  I know you were doing so well.

Life does suck, but I deal with it without numbing it out.  You should have too.

I am mad about that.

The bad stuff does suck, but it should have made you appreciate the good.

I guess maybe that crap numbs out the good stuff too,

or else makes it less than it should have been.

I am so mad that you didn’t come to me, and tell me what was going on.

I am mad at myself for that too.  I shut you out, and I was cruel to you.

I think that’s why the anger has mostly replaced itself with blame.

I blame myself and always will,

and I think you knew me enough to know that I would do that,

and it makes me angry that you would do that to me.

I didn’t deserve to have to be sad and mourn and blame myself for all of it,

no matter how much you were mad at me or disappointed in me.

I lay awake at night.

  I can’t sleep.

I just think about you.

  All the time, so much, I think about you.

I am mad that you threw yourself away.

I am mad that you stole your life away from me.

You knew, or you should have known, how much I always cared about you.

I am not that good of an actress.

Even when I pretended at the end, and lied and said I didn’t care what you did, I cared.

You should have known I cared.  How could I not?

Feelings like I have for you don’t go away. They never will.

I don’t believe that you’re dead.

I don’t believe that a thing like a person can be here, and then be gone.

If I believed that, I wouldn’t be able to keep going.

I have to think that this thing didn’t happen really, that somewhere, you are still alive.

You never died.

I have to believe this, because you were such a big piece of my heart

that if you are really dead, then so am I.

I saw you lying there.

It wasn’t you.  It didn’t look like you.

It looked like someone tried to make a clone of you, who didn’t know you at all,

and it fooled everyone, but it didn’t fool me.

You are out there.  You are not gone.  I am mad at you for making me feel crazy like this.

I am supposed to believe that you are dead.  Everyone believes it.

But I don’t want to believe it.

They all go on with their lives, like they are not affected.

Like I am the only one whose life stopped that day,

like I am the only one who can’t get over it.

If no one else feels like I do, then I don’t know.  But you had me.  You always had me.

  I am mad that you make me hate him.

  He does a good enough job on his own, and you make me hate him more.

I hate that you didn’t find me first, that you were not the one who got me,

that you are not the one that owned my life.  But really, you do.

You are controlling it without even being here.  And I am mad about that.

If you own me, and you do, then you should be taking care of me.

You should be with me and loving me, and holding me.

I am mad that you didn’t try harder.  I am mad that you gave up.

I am mad that you were a coward.  I am mad that you didn’t try to fix things.

  I am mad that you didn’t ask for help.

I hate you for leaving me in this shitty world alone.

  I am mad that you make me face every second of every hour of every day for the rest of my life, feeling like I feel,

knowing that I failed you,

knowing that I will never see you again,

wondering what if what I did or didn’t do made you take your life,

believing that I killed you with my actions or lack of actions,

feeling alone, feeling sad and angry and scared.

I am so angry that I can’t seem to let you go.

But that much is my own fault, because I don’t want to let you go.

Sometimes I am so angry that you didn’t just kill me outright,

but you make me suffer you, you torture me by not being here.

  I don’t want to die, but life without you hurts me so much.

If you would have just told me, I know I could have made it better.

I know if you told me, I could have helped you.

I could have made you happy.

I will always be mad at myself that I chose the path I chose,

and that is not fair to anyone because I can’t change any of it now.

I am mad that you stole the chance for me to change my mind.

I am mad that you couldn’t find a girl who was worthy of you,

because you were precious,

and you deserved so much more than what you had.

I am mad that you didn’t know how much you were.

I am mad that you didn’t know exactly how big you were in my eyes.

You were so much to me.

  I am mad that I have to sit here writing these stupid words to try to make myself feel better,

when I don’t want to feel better,

when I don’t want to be having to do this,

when you could be sitting in the living room pissing me off,

or somewhere else, it doesn’t matter where,

being happy, or at least headed in that direction.

  You will never know what you left behind, and I hate you for that,

for not letting yourself get the good stuff that you deserved so much.

I am so mad that I ever met you, that I had to know you, that I had to lose you.

  I wish you would have hated me; it’s so easy to do.

I wish you would have called me a bitch,

and not felt the way you felt about me,

and then you would still be alive.

It is not better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Who ever said that was a lying mother fucker.

  I don’t regret how I felt and still feel.

These feelings are what make this miserable life worth living.

I regret that I lost it.

If you are blind, and you can never see, you don’t know what you are missing,

but I could see, and now I can’t anymore, and I know what I lost, you sorry bastard.

I know what I don’t have

and I know that I don’t believe I’ll ever feel like this about anyone again.

I should have left with you.

I hate myself for not going, because he would hate me, but he wouldn’t have killed himself.

And whether or not you would have done what you did if I had gone with you, I don’t know,

and the not knowing eats away at my bones and I can hardly stand it.

I look for you in every person I meet and I always will, and you will never really be there,

and I hate it.

  I hate that what you used to say circles around in my head and won’t let me have peace.

I hate that you are gone.

I hate that I’ll never know what our life together would have been,

and partly that’s my fault, and partly that’s yours,

because I made a choice, but I could have made a different one in time.

  And I hate that you gave me the choice.

I hate that you wanted the thing you couldn’t have,

just like I did, but I could have left it alone, and of course, not you.

You had to act because you were an impulsive asshole who couldn’t be happy with the way things were.

You couldn’t just be my friend and let me have my daydreams of you once in a while.

No, you had to make me love you.

  You had to be the things I wanted someone to be,

and say the things I wanted someone to say to me.

I hate that you took all that away from me in the end.

I hate that you couldn’t go back to being just a friend.  I hate myself that I let you get to me.

He’s an ass a big portion of the time, but look at all the things I have done,

and how am I supposed to believe that I deserved better?

But you, you had to make me believe that you were better,

and that I could have you if I wanted.

And when I tried to be strong, and better than I was, you left.

  You went back to being a fucking moron, wasting your life.

You couldn’t see what I was doing?  You couldn’t see why?  Really?

I know moral conventions weren’t your thing, but the world doesn’t cater to you.

Did you really think it should have?

Did you really think that your friend didn’t deserve to have his happiness?

Did you think you deserved it more?

He could have been happy with me too.

A good friend would have let me be a better wife.

A good friend would have wanted his friend to be happy, even if it meant giving up some of his own happiness.

  If you couldn’t have done it for him, then why not for me?

I could have been content.

Never really happy but content, and as that is all I had ever known,

I wouldn’t have been aware of what I was missing.

But now I am acutely aware of it,

every second of the day.

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