The worst thing in the world is when you treat me like shit just so other people can see.
For their benefit, I know, you snap and push me down again and again and again.
I am worth more.
I
am better off on my own, this I know, and yet even on my own you still
have the power to punch the wind out of my stomach and make me run
crying for the hills.
I am better than that.
I am know you care(d) about me, and I know you don't always show it, but I am so much better than that.
I am pretty and intelligent and I am worthy of being loved (keep repeating and it will come true.)
Maybe
someday I'll really be swept away by someone who is kind and thinks I'm
"a goddess" and won't sour towards me in the time that it takes my
heart to grow.
Maybe someday.
Not today.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Revenge
The bar-stool is half an inch too high, balancing myself precariously
my fingers search blindly through my clutch for what my ex-pastor
referred to as my "tar deathsticks." The idea of my pastor seeing me
here lifts the corners of my scarlet lips a little, the Eternal Struggle
for my Soul is lost amid men with dirty beards and my too-tight faded
jeans.
Across the bar, a man with dirty blond hair consults with his friend dressed in a tar splattered orange jumpsuit. They send surreptitious glances my way; I begin a mental countdown. Five...he snuffs his half-smoked cigarette out, four...he picks through his wallet for a crumpled bill, three...he downs the rest of his beer, two...he slides off the stool.
One.
"Hey there, buy you a drink?" Wait, count to ten Mississippis, then glance slowly up through smoky eyes.
"I'm good, thanks."
"Well shoot, what's a guy gotta do around here to show a lady a good time?" Forcing a laugh I slide off the stool, knowing full well that when I do I'll be standing an inch too close and be forced to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. Cue the smolder.
"What's a girl gotta do to enjoy a beer in peace." I've got him, his look of longing betrays him and all the swagger in the world won't save him now. He moves a hair's breath closer and I let my chest heave a little, knowing that it won't escape his notice.
"Well I know a place with plenty of beer and no strange men to bother your."
"Oh?" My fingers are closing around my clutch before the words are out of his mouth.
"Come back to my place."
The kitchen is shabby, filled with cheap plastic plates staked neatly in cupboards with no doors. He sets a beer in front of me and swings the door closed with his hip, I survey my surroundings as I bring the bottle to my lips.
"You been in town long?" He is eying me, hasn't taken his eyes off me since we walked through the front door.
"No, not really. Just passing through." He smiles, nods in what he must think is a comforting manner.
"Girls like you should watch yourself down at Jimmy's, it's a rough crowd."
"Girls like me?" He is around the counter now, hands reaching to caress my body.
"Pretty little things with no one to watch out for them." I step back, gripping my clutch in one hand and my beer in the other.
"I can watch out for myself."
He lunges, and pins me against the counter, Struggling my beer crashes to the floor and explodes in a rage of foam and green glass.
"Oh, come on don't fight it, you want this. You can't walk into a bar dressed like that and not want this-" His fingers scrabble at my chest, my hair- I lean back and dig my nails in. I don't see his left arm until it's too late and my face is screaming in pain.
"ENOUGH." I'm angry now- in three seconds the gun is out of my clutch and with a quiet pop the struggle is over.
Red mixes with my beer's foam, through his back pocket I can see the led of a cell phone screen light up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- the phone shows a picture of him and a beautiful brunette standing on a sandy beach embracing.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- I flip it open.
"Hi, it's me. I'm sorry to tell you that you're right, he did take me home. He won't be laying a hand on you again."
Snapping the phone shut, I am careful to tread on him on my way out the door.
Across the bar, a man with dirty blond hair consults with his friend dressed in a tar splattered orange jumpsuit. They send surreptitious glances my way; I begin a mental countdown. Five...he snuffs his half-smoked cigarette out, four...he picks through his wallet for a crumpled bill, three...he downs the rest of his beer, two...he slides off the stool.
One.
"Hey there, buy you a drink?" Wait, count to ten Mississippis, then glance slowly up through smoky eyes.
"I'm good, thanks."
"Well shoot, what's a guy gotta do around here to show a lady a good time?" Forcing a laugh I slide off the stool, knowing full well that when I do I'll be standing an inch too close and be forced to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. Cue the smolder.
"What's a girl gotta do to enjoy a beer in peace." I've got him, his look of longing betrays him and all the swagger in the world won't save him now. He moves a hair's breath closer and I let my chest heave a little, knowing that it won't escape his notice.
"Well I know a place with plenty of beer and no strange men to bother your."
"Oh?" My fingers are closing around my clutch before the words are out of his mouth.
"Come back to my place."
The kitchen is shabby, filled with cheap plastic plates staked neatly in cupboards with no doors. He sets a beer in front of me and swings the door closed with his hip, I survey my surroundings as I bring the bottle to my lips.
"You been in town long?" He is eying me, hasn't taken his eyes off me since we walked through the front door.
"No, not really. Just passing through." He smiles, nods in what he must think is a comforting manner.
"Girls like you should watch yourself down at Jimmy's, it's a rough crowd."
"Girls like me?" He is around the counter now, hands reaching to caress my body.
"Pretty little things with no one to watch out for them." I step back, gripping my clutch in one hand and my beer in the other.
"I can watch out for myself."
He lunges, and pins me against the counter, Struggling my beer crashes to the floor and explodes in a rage of foam and green glass.
"Oh, come on don't fight it, you want this. You can't walk into a bar dressed like that and not want this-" His fingers scrabble at my chest, my hair- I lean back and dig my nails in. I don't see his left arm until it's too late and my face is screaming in pain.
"ENOUGH." I'm angry now- in three seconds the gun is out of my clutch and with a quiet pop the struggle is over.
Red mixes with my beer's foam, through his back pocket I can see the led of a cell phone screen light up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- the phone shows a picture of him and a beautiful brunette standing on a sandy beach embracing.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- I flip it open.
"Hi, it's me. I'm sorry to tell you that you're right, he did take me home. He won't be laying a hand on you again."
Snapping the phone shut, I am careful to tread on him on my way out the door.
Thurston Classic
I am so happy, I can't even express it in words.
Yes, at night it starts to hurt and I roll over and tuck a stuffed blue dog closer under my chin. But right now I'm sore exhausted and happy.
Some part of me has re-awakened, I want to giggle and dance in the rain and write sappy wonderful love stories.
Today I'm not going to think or worry about tomorrow, today I am happy and still in love and remembering my once forgotten passion for life.
As one of my favorite literary characters once said, "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it-yet."
Yes, at night it starts to hurt and I roll over and tuck a stuffed blue dog closer under my chin. But right now I'm sore exhausted and happy.
Some part of me has re-awakened, I want to giggle and dance in the rain and write sappy wonderful love stories.
Today I'm not going to think or worry about tomorrow, today I am happy and still in love and remembering my once forgotten passion for life.
As one of my favorite literary characters once said, "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it-yet."
Hard Love
Tonight, the man with blond hair and blue eyes is unhappy. He is
staring at my folder instead of looking at me, and this is normal. He
doesn't like to look at me, not for any length of time. Instead he
finds constant reasons to shift around the contents of my file, glance
at the guard behind the double pane of glass, or clean his glasses.
Surly, this can't be normal shrink behavior. I've never been to a
therapist before, though in the back of my mind something long ago
learned reminds me that this is a psychiatrist, not a therapist. Or
maybe he's both? Surely the county women's penitentiary doesn't have
the budget for both. They don't even have the budget for proper shoes.
He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers. Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts? He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more.
"Anna. Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday." Megan? My friend? I suppose.
"Yes?" He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me.
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight. You called her after, didn't you Anna? Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging. They heard something hit the wall. Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me. I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms. Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next. Breath. In. Out. Reply.
"No. No, I don't want to talk about it." This was the wrong answer. He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze. I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna. This is going to help you. I want to help you. Did you and John argue often?" If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned. Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face.
"No. We didn't. He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on. He likes it ready when he gets home. I was tired and I forgot and we fought."
"Did John hit you, Anna?" This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks. He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table.
"No. John would never hit me. He loved me. The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall. John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive." The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file.
"All right, I think that's enough for today. We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready."
After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist. A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.
He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers. Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts? He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more.
"Anna. Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday." Megan? My friend? I suppose.
"Yes?" He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me.
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight. You called her after, didn't you Anna? Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging. They heard something hit the wall. Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me. I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms. Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next. Breath. In. Out. Reply.
"No. No, I don't want to talk about it." This was the wrong answer. He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze. I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna. This is going to help you. I want to help you. Did you and John argue often?" If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned. Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face.
"No. We didn't. He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on. He likes it ready when he gets home. I was tired and I forgot and we fought."
"Did John hit you, Anna?" This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks. He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table.
"No. John would never hit me. He loved me. The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall. John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive." The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file.
"All right, I think that's enough for today. We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready."
After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist. A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.
Aftermath
The girl in the orange jumpsuit stares back at me. Across the table,
she seems too frail to have a file as thick as the one sitting on my
lap. Her brunette hair is pulled back into the utilitarian pony tail of
all the women here, she looks no more than sixteen though the paper in
front of me lists her age as twenty two. Only a year younger than I. I
shuffle the file, collecting myself and remembering that she wouldn't
be in here without a good blood chilling reason. I smile, and I know
that though it doesn't reach my eyes I'm young and handsome enough to
make most of the women want to talk to me.
"So Anna, this is our first meeting. Would you mind telling me why you're in here?" She blinks, the orange fabric stiffly resisting the shape of her body as she leans back into the metal chair.
"I killed him." This takes my by surprise, I have to glance back down at the file to check my facts before I speak again.
"Who did you kill, Anna?"
"My fiance. John. I killed him with his car. I stabbed him with the kitchen knife while I was making Spaghetti Carbonara." She looks at me, earnestly.
"Anna, it says here "attempted homicide. You didn't kill anyone; your fiance-John, he's not dead." She lets a sigh escape, long and low.
"To me, I killed him. I am here, and he is out there. I will be here forever and even if I'm not, I will never see him again. To me, I killed him."
This job is still new to me, I'm not used to dealing with more than petulant teens and their parents. These women are different, they are mostly my age and they are constantly full of surprises. I find myself imagining another life, if I had met Anna under different circumstances. In her booking photos, she has a spark in her eyes that has vanished in the subsequent six months. In another world, I would have found her intriguing, pretty. She is staring expectantly at me and I try to look as if I have not just slipped into my own thoughts.
"Why did you want to hurt John?" She gives a half shrug. Her movements aren't defined, merely the suggestions of gestures.
"He hurt me. Again and again. It was time for me to hurt him." This is something I have been trained to deal with, back to textbook scenarios. Except that the textbooks don't tell you that sometimes, attempted murders look like they need someone to wrap them in a blanket and give them them a can of Campbell's tomato soup. Mmm mmm good.
"What did he do to you? Did he physically hurt you?" That slight movement that suggests a shake of the head
"No. He loved me. He loved me and then he let me love him. He loved me, let me loved him, and then let me go."
"He broke off your engagement?"
"No. He tried but that was only because he was scared. I was scared too. We were scared together. And then he told me I wasn't enough, I would never be enough. But he wouldn't let anyone else love me either. I was alone. No love."
This is the most she has said at once and she is moving, actually moving, to brush a stray hair from her eye.
"He told you that you weren't enough emotionally? Sexually?"
"Everything. I'll never be enough, never be good enough. He loves, loved me. I think. And then he tells me that I need to believe that I'm beautiful. I need to believe that I'm enough. And then. And then the one time I did believe he slapped me. He called me a whore and he hit me. And I took the knife and I tried to kill him. And it felt really good. But then, I loved him. I love him. And now. Now I've killed him. And I love him still."
For a moment, her eyes are shining and I see a little bit of the passion that blazes in the photo on my lap. It's hard for me not to be enthralled in her blue eyes. She stands then, and when she moves with purpose it's graceful and beautiful to watch.
"Excuse me Doctor, I believe I've become too emotional to continue. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to get to know you, a lifetime if John has anything to do with it."
I catch what might be a wry smile, but it's gone too quickly to tell. She moves to the door and the guard who has been waiting outside quickly escorts her down the hall, the shuffle of her paper slippers echoing off the cement corridor.
I run my fingers through my hair, spiraling my fingers around the damn cowlick in the back that never seems to lay flat. She is something different, never in my life have I met a woman more distressing or intriguing. I know I should call my supervisor and ask to be taken off her case, I clearly have feelings in conflict to my position as counselor. Instead I fold her booking photo and tuck it into my jacket pocket. I can't wait to see her again.
"So Anna, this is our first meeting. Would you mind telling me why you're in here?" She blinks, the orange fabric stiffly resisting the shape of her body as she leans back into the metal chair.
"I killed him." This takes my by surprise, I have to glance back down at the file to check my facts before I speak again.
"Who did you kill, Anna?"
"My fiance. John. I killed him with his car. I stabbed him with the kitchen knife while I was making Spaghetti Carbonara." She looks at me, earnestly.
"Anna, it says here "attempted homicide. You didn't kill anyone; your fiance-John, he's not dead." She lets a sigh escape, long and low.
"To me, I killed him. I am here, and he is out there. I will be here forever and even if I'm not, I will never see him again. To me, I killed him."
This job is still new to me, I'm not used to dealing with more than petulant teens and their parents. These women are different, they are mostly my age and they are constantly full of surprises. I find myself imagining another life, if I had met Anna under different circumstances. In her booking photos, she has a spark in her eyes that has vanished in the subsequent six months. In another world, I would have found her intriguing, pretty. She is staring expectantly at me and I try to look as if I have not just slipped into my own thoughts.
"Why did you want to hurt John?" She gives a half shrug. Her movements aren't defined, merely the suggestions of gestures.
"He hurt me. Again and again. It was time for me to hurt him." This is something I have been trained to deal with, back to textbook scenarios. Except that the textbooks don't tell you that sometimes, attempted murders look like they need someone to wrap them in a blanket and give them them a can of Campbell's tomato soup. Mmm mmm good.
"What did he do to you? Did he physically hurt you?" That slight movement that suggests a shake of the head
"No. He loved me. He loved me and then he let me love him. He loved me, let me loved him, and then let me go."
"He broke off your engagement?"
"No. He tried but that was only because he was scared. I was scared too. We were scared together. And then he told me I wasn't enough, I would never be enough. But he wouldn't let anyone else love me either. I was alone. No love."
This is the most she has said at once and she is moving, actually moving, to brush a stray hair from her eye.
"He told you that you weren't enough emotionally? Sexually?"
"Everything. I'll never be enough, never be good enough. He loves, loved me. I think. And then he tells me that I need to believe that I'm beautiful. I need to believe that I'm enough. And then. And then the one time I did believe he slapped me. He called me a whore and he hit me. And I took the knife and I tried to kill him. And it felt really good. But then, I loved him. I love him. And now. Now I've killed him. And I love him still."
For a moment, her eyes are shining and I see a little bit of the passion that blazes in the photo on my lap. It's hard for me not to be enthralled in her blue eyes. She stands then, and when she moves with purpose it's graceful and beautiful to watch.
"Excuse me Doctor, I believe I've become too emotional to continue. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to get to know you, a lifetime if John has anything to do with it."
I catch what might be a wry smile, but it's gone too quickly to tell. She moves to the door and the guard who has been waiting outside quickly escorts her down the hall, the shuffle of her paper slippers echoing off the cement corridor.
I run my fingers through my hair, spiraling my fingers around the damn cowlick in the back that never seems to lay flat. She is something different, never in my life have I met a woman more distressing or intriguing. I know I should call my supervisor and ask to be taken off her case, I clearly have feelings in conflict to my position as counselor. Instead I fold her booking photo and tuck it into my jacket pocket. I can't wait to see her again.
G
She had green eyes I think. Or maybe I'm romanticizing blue, I
haven't seen her in over a year and a half and I won't be seeing her
again. Never again. Ever. There is an eternity packed into that word;
every time I try to think about it I fall into a hole in my mind and am
halfway gone before I remind myself to breath. Breath. She can't, you
still can.
The last time I saw her we were at the beach. She had the bundle of incense and was using it to frighten away bad spirits, to the rest of us it was such a fun game but now I know-we know- to her it was real. We stood there, eight girls, shouting our regrets to the ocean and the sand and the stiff New England air. Other girls our age were in the woods, hiding their pot and their beer and trying to feel mature, we were holding on to youth with both hands. I told her, told everyone, that I was going to tell the man that I loved the truth, I was going to tell him everything and pray to my lucky stars that his love would prevail. I told them about my life and my love and I was so wrapped up in being young that I didn't even stop to wonder how she was doing, how everyone else was doing.
I wouldn't talk to her again.
I remember too when we were young, art class; I spent a week trying to accomplish what she managed in forty minutes. I was so jealous. She was cool and free spirited and perhaps popular, I was those things only by association. I didn't know, didn't understand that she had demons too. We all have demons to fight.
They didn't find her for two days.
My dangerous moods started when I was twelve. Food didn't matter, I had dreams about bridges and falling but I was too scared of pain to dream in reality. Lunchtime meant throwing out whatever dried up bread my mother had managed to throw into my bag and disappearing into my mind. I was the only one in the world who felt this, had to be the only one who understood what it meant to just want everything to stop. I wish I had stayed with the family that loved me in the place I had known. Maybe I would have noticed that she and I shared isolation. Maybe, together, we both would have been ok.
By the time the school noticed, it was too late and she was gone.
In AP English we slaved together over Shakespeare. I only had eyes for the tousled haired boy in the back of the class, daydreaming about tennis courts and movie nights and buffalo chicken pizza. If we spoke it was surrounded by everyone else. We spent days together in mutual silence. I was intimidated by her- jealous that she was brave enough to shave her head and then go platinum blond, jealous that she looked so good and was so damned talented. We were friends, sure, and she was one of three people to pay their share on my eighteenth birthday when the others left me to front the bill. For Christmas she gave me a tiny drawing in a frame, my name. I have lost it. I thought at the time there would be plenty more years and drawings and time for casual conversation.
I didn't know for two weeks. We had known each other for fifteen years, and she was dead for two weeks before I knew.
I could have done oh so much more. I could have talked. I could have listened. I could have noticed when she took our playacting more seriously than the rest, could have wondered if for her the demons we ran from were real. I wonder if she knew that we shared that dark part of our soul, that deep question mark of life's worth.
They found her because she didn't call her dad for his birthday.
I love my father. Sometimes I imagine if it was him getting that call from a far away city about his baby girl. I imagine and I cry and I thank whatever God or Grace that I can for my fear of pain. I love my baby sister and brother. I hope that I am the first one of us to go because I don't think I can bear ever losing either of them, now or in fifty years. I the man who stopped this part of me. He told me to turn around and go home, he told me he loved me and that ocean water in mid January is far too cold. He held me the night that my best friend called me and said, she's gone. The night I grew up and realized that I am not immune, we are not immune. She was so close and then she was gone.
But Gwen, I kept my promise from the beach that night. I told him everything and what's more I haven't lied since and won't again. If I had done that long before, maybe I would have had the time to notice that something was horribly wrong. I miss you, I miss talking about Bjork and MOMA and how we were going to run away to Finland. I'm mad at you and mad at myself for ever thinking that there was no way out, mad and scared of losing another person that I love. I know you don't believe in God or Heaven, and I don't really either- but some days I wish I did because the thought of being able to redeem myself to you someday is comforting. I miss you every day, we all do- I hope wherever you are they have insane Scandinavian music and lots of colored pencils.
The last time I saw her we were at the beach. She had the bundle of incense and was using it to frighten away bad spirits, to the rest of us it was such a fun game but now I know-we know- to her it was real. We stood there, eight girls, shouting our regrets to the ocean and the sand and the stiff New England air. Other girls our age were in the woods, hiding their pot and their beer and trying to feel mature, we were holding on to youth with both hands. I told her, told everyone, that I was going to tell the man that I loved the truth, I was going to tell him everything and pray to my lucky stars that his love would prevail. I told them about my life and my love and I was so wrapped up in being young that I didn't even stop to wonder how she was doing, how everyone else was doing.
I wouldn't talk to her again.
I remember too when we were young, art class; I spent a week trying to accomplish what she managed in forty minutes. I was so jealous. She was cool and free spirited and perhaps popular, I was those things only by association. I didn't know, didn't understand that she had demons too. We all have demons to fight.
They didn't find her for two days.
My dangerous moods started when I was twelve. Food didn't matter, I had dreams about bridges and falling but I was too scared of pain to dream in reality. Lunchtime meant throwing out whatever dried up bread my mother had managed to throw into my bag and disappearing into my mind. I was the only one in the world who felt this, had to be the only one who understood what it meant to just want everything to stop. I wish I had stayed with the family that loved me in the place I had known. Maybe I would have noticed that she and I shared isolation. Maybe, together, we both would have been ok.
By the time the school noticed, it was too late and she was gone.
In AP English we slaved together over Shakespeare. I only had eyes for the tousled haired boy in the back of the class, daydreaming about tennis courts and movie nights and buffalo chicken pizza. If we spoke it was surrounded by everyone else. We spent days together in mutual silence. I was intimidated by her- jealous that she was brave enough to shave her head and then go platinum blond, jealous that she looked so good and was so damned talented. We were friends, sure, and she was one of three people to pay their share on my eighteenth birthday when the others left me to front the bill. For Christmas she gave me a tiny drawing in a frame, my name. I have lost it. I thought at the time there would be plenty more years and drawings and time for casual conversation.
I didn't know for two weeks. We had known each other for fifteen years, and she was dead for two weeks before I knew.
I could have done oh so much more. I could have talked. I could have listened. I could have noticed when she took our playacting more seriously than the rest, could have wondered if for her the demons we ran from were real. I wonder if she knew that we shared that dark part of our soul, that deep question mark of life's worth.
They found her because she didn't call her dad for his birthday.
I love my father. Sometimes I imagine if it was him getting that call from a far away city about his baby girl. I imagine and I cry and I thank whatever God or Grace that I can for my fear of pain. I love my baby sister and brother. I hope that I am the first one of us to go because I don't think I can bear ever losing either of them, now or in fifty years. I the man who stopped this part of me. He told me to turn around and go home, he told me he loved me and that ocean water in mid January is far too cold. He held me the night that my best friend called me and said, she's gone. The night I grew up and realized that I am not immune, we are not immune. She was so close and then she was gone.
But Gwen, I kept my promise from the beach that night. I told him everything and what's more I haven't lied since and won't again. If I had done that long before, maybe I would have had the time to notice that something was horribly wrong. I miss you, I miss talking about Bjork and MOMA and how we were going to run away to Finland. I'm mad at you and mad at myself for ever thinking that there was no way out, mad and scared of losing another person that I love. I know you don't believe in God or Heaven, and I don't really either- but some days I wish I did because the thought of being able to redeem myself to you someday is comforting. I miss you every day, we all do- I hope wherever you are they have insane Scandinavian music and lots of colored pencils.
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