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I still miss you. Not every day, just most of them. When I think of starting a journal, I realize that all the things I want to say are directed at you. Most of them start with "I'm sorry", and the rest end in question marks. I've never known what the hell I'm doing, and you always seemed so certain in your actions, even when you weren't. I need your certainty. I need you to tell me what the hell I'm doing with my life, where to go, if I should even go anywhere or if that's a disastrous pipe dream. You were right about the men in my life when I had no idea what was going on. You never questioned the love I had for G, even when I was young and dumb. In the awful aftermath of our breakup, you assured me that we'd find a new, better form for our relationship to take. You told me not to trust too strongly in S and to never bend to the will of someone who wants to control me for their sake rather than mine. You were right, and that warning echoed in my mind when he proposed. I ran, and I've since gotten continuous reminders of the wisdom of that choice. Without your advice, I don't know if I would've had the strength to walk away from someone who'd been my crutch. Someone who told me that the only chance I had at worth was through him. I saw all the signs of control, watched them escalate toward abuse, and honestly didn't look at them for what they were. It could've been too late. I could have been isolated to caring for him and the kids, feeling trapped. Your warning freed me to continue trying to love, trying to grow on my own. But what the fuck am I doing with that? Wrapping myself in other people's dreams, fears, hatred, anxiety... I don't even know what I want out of life, but I know I can't stagnate. I can't stay here for my own sake, but the immediacy is driven by my need to help him escape and hopefully find a place he can be something like happy. By my age, you were stuck to a crazy man you loved and had a kid on the way. What would you have done if you had the chance? I've stayed here largely out of a sense of responsibility to my family that I continue to neglect, like I neglected you. I don't know how to help them. I don't know if I can do it. Dad could barely exist when you were here and now, three years after your death, with kids all grown, he wants to die more than ever. He finds small glimmers of happiness in the interactions he has with me and my brothers, but they're brief and bittersweet. He often leaves abruptly to go home and drink himself blind again. I can't challenge that. I don't know how to tell a man who contributed to my wish to die that he needs to live. I can't form an honest argument for him existing, and I'm fucking furious that I can't hate him anymore. I'll genuinely miss him when he's gone.
I don't know anymore who to burden with my desire for meaning in life, and I still don't know how to live for myself. Every year feels like a different version of wrestling with sheets on a summer night when you can't get comfortable, flipping the pillow over and over to find the cool spot.
My comfort... well, let's just say, It's easier to talk to others now... I guess I branched out. The seed has taken hold in new soil, and all I can do Is vaguely wave my blooming branches in her direction.
Now you’re a decade older and have a new set of children and don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you push the rest of us aside when he has the time for you you the one who said that nothing would ever come between us that you would always pick us first.