All my life, I would generally describe myself as optimistic. I struggle with a constant low-grade type of depression called Dysthymia, but overall, I’ve always figured things would work out for the best. I can see the good. I can smile and generally make myself feel good.
I like that person. She’s uplifting, kind, pleasant, fun. Yeah, sure, she has her times of being down. Who doesn’t? But she has hope.
I realized the other day that I think that person, who I’ve been my whole life, the me I know, died the day Ian did. I don’t feel optimistic anymore. I don’t believe that things will work out for the best. I’m sad.
Yes, I realize that some of that will come back. Eventually, I may generally be able to be happy again. I might yet manage to be uplifting, pleasant, and kind. I will certainly try. But optimistic? Likely not. Sure that things will work out? Definitely not. That person is dead.
That makes me very sad. I will miss her. The sparkle in her eye. I may miss her more than I miss him. Maybe. Eventually.
I know he didn’t realize that would happen. I know he didn’t think of how much what he did would change everyone who loved him. I wish he’d thought of that, though. I wish he’d considered who else he was killing when he killed himself. Because he wasn’t the only casualty. Far from it. He took a good sized coterie with him, whether he realized it or not.
415 total views, 1 views today