“. . . yearning for something that is never going to be there again . . . feeling of having it sucked away from you . . .”
“I Loved You Too Much”
Fiction. Based on a True Clinging.
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
I’m clung, like a dryer sheet. The memories still haunt me, and still I feel like I’m losing my mind, like all of my grief has caught up to me. When I drink just a little too much, I feel engulfed in sadness. Stuck underwater. Stuck wanting you like always. Memories coming flooding back, memories that I haven’t thought of in months—perhaps half a year or more. I think of how I used to be, and I miss her. I miss the hope I used to have.
I miss you. And oh, how tired I am of writing about you.
Today while I was walking, trying to create space for my thoughts, I thought, this is my life now. And I was filled with sadness. For the thousandth time, I missed our days together.
We did everything as a team. I’d come home after work, and you’d push me to take our run together. I miss my job and the tropical humidity of the city. I miss the sun and our daily walks; I miss our pets. I miss your gentle touch, and I miss making love to you in our bed.
I miss our backyard. Do you still keep my notes to you in the same spot? In some ways, I still haven’t finished moving into my parents’ house. Your notes to me? I shoved them haphazardly onto some shelf in my closet. I know exactly where they are. They’re crinkled, but your handwriting is there. You wrote the things you loved about me. You pledged to love me. How can I ever forget that?
I pledged to love you too. And I still do. I haven’t broken that promise. I did nothing to deserve this. It was you who let me go.
I suppose eventually I’ll let go. I’ll move on. I’ll follow my path despite the plans we had together. I’ll leave this place, and occasionally I’ll think of you. I’ll wonder what it would have been like if you had come with me as we had planned.
I want you to know how much you hurt me. But I think you already know. In some ways, I never want to see you again. Not unless you’re begging for me and my forgiveness.
I loved you too much. There’s the part of me that wants to get down on my knees before you and beg you for your forgiveness, for all that I did wrong. There’s the part that wants to approach with a smile, to cup your jaw with a gentle hand, to tenderly kiss you. And there’s the part that wants to shove you against a wall and yell at you for all the hurt and pain you caused me, all the broken dreams.
Perhaps I am neglecting myself.
How many times have I run away? How many times have I grown bored with one thing and jumped into another? What, if anything, in my life, is lasting?
Sometimes I don’t recognize myself. Sometimes I don’t recognize the needy, attention-seeking, flirtatious girl that struts in front of others. I’m more familiar with the me that digs a little deeper under the covers each morning and tries to block out the daylight and ignore the soft chirping of the alarm clock. Lying to avoid doing.
That’s the me that I’m most familiar with. That’s the me that I’m comfortable berating on a daily basis.
Anything I do lately is either not enough or too much.