Letting Go

Today is nine months to the day since Ian died. In the last few days, I’ve started wondering whether I’m holding on to something that doesn’t exist. I know Ian’s dead, and I have no delusion/denial of that fact. But I still talk to him every day. Not in the hopes/with the idea that he hears me, or could respond in any way… just because it felt somewhat comforting to do so.

Now I’m not sure it’s entirely healthy. Am I clinging to something that used to be in an attempt to not open myself up to the possibility of something new? I know I’m nowhere near ready to look at a new relationship, but friendship, maybe. I don’t know.

Ian was the first person I’d met who was so perfectly fitted to me. He understood and agreed with some of my darker humor, my misanthropic moments, my giddy, fun moments. Silliness and darkness all together. No one else has ever been right there with me like he was. I have a really hard time believing that there are many of us out there like that. He was special.

Is my continuing to talk to him, yell at him, write Sunday letters to him good or bad? Is it healthy expression of what’s going on in my heart, or is it a way for me to hold on to something that isn’t there anymore? Am I holding on to a ghost?

There’s no rule book for mourning. No RIGHT WAY to do it. And aside from a few incidents, I believe I’ve been mourning fairly healthily. Maybe not though. Maybe my unhealthy reaction is more subtle, more insidious. Rather than drinking or developing an eating disorder or becoming ridiculously promiscuous, I’m clinging to the past.

Or maybe the fears are true. Maybe there never will be anyone like him again. Maybe my very best years are behind me now that he’s gone. Maybe those memories need to sustain me now.

I have no idea.

And in honor of Ian’s love of weird covers of things: