First Letter

Another Throw Back Thursday post. This was the first letter I wrote to Ian.

Ian,

It’s been 24 days. 24 days since you checked out. Escaped. Bailed. Lost the fight. How I think about it changes with my mood.

I still miss you constantly.

This morning on my way to work, as I was driving past your street, I was thinking about something I’d been looking into, about personality types. I thought about what you were… and realized I was thinking of you in the past tense.

I don’t want you to be past tense. I want you to be here. I want to be able to text you my random thoughts. I want a hug.

But you are past tense. Whether something of you still exists out in the ether or not, I can’t communicate with it. And it can’t communicate with me. Even if it wanted to. So you are no more.

And dude? That sucks. I’m positive you thought it would be better for me in the long run. That it would be better for everyone in the long run. I would probably faint from shock if that WASN’T something you thought. But you were wrong. Completely.

I miss you.

And I will continue to do so. Probably not as constantly as I am now. Probably, eventually, it will be merely periodic… something that comes up on your birthday, or death date… or other significant time/reminder. Probably. But I will never stop missing you completely. I will miss you from time to time until the day I die, and maybe join you.

Gods, I hope I do. I hope that is something that really can happen. Because if it is, when I join you, I’m going to kick your ass. And then I’m going to hug you until you get sick of me. And then probably kick your ass some more.

I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I didn’t see. I’m sorry I was pulling away again, that I let you distance yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t push that talk you said we needed to have, but then didn’t pursue. I’m sorry I didn’t text you when I wanted to, out of some stupid desire not to appear to be so in love with you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

But I couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me. You were uncomfortable with how much I loved you. Everything I did, I did because you gave every indication that you wanted me to do it… you wanted me to back off. You wanted me to let you live your life. If I’d known that that would mean letting you die your death, I wouldn’t have honored your wishes. And that probably wouldn’t have helped much. But it might have.

It’s been 24 days. 24 days of hell. 24 days of pure pain. 24 days ago, you lost the battle.

I know you tried. I wish you’d have let me fight with you. Maybe we could have won together. I still love you. Always will.

You jackass.

-Iris

Written 3/12/2014

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