I know.
It's funny the things that people remember. Yesterday was the two-year anniversary of P's death. I spent the early part of the day with M, who made sure I was ok, until I dropped him at the airport. The remainder of the day I sort of paid tribute to P. I listened to Minor Threat's Complete Discography, the first CD that P bought. I made his favorite dinner last night. I drank a lot of wine. I felt this big huge hole inside of me.
When someone dies, someone close to you, there are things that people do. They don't know what to say. Mostly, they say "I don't know what to say", which is completely fair. I never wanted to hear "He's in a better place" or "Time will heal all wounds", because that's completely not true. He's not in a better place. He's dead. He's in the ground. I, being agnostic as P was, don't necessarily think that he's in heaven. Sure, it's nice to say, it makes you think that he's happy and floating and playing his little harp up there with all of the angels, but it's really a crock of shit, isn't it? He's simply dead and rotting and here we all are with only our memories and photos and manufactured religious ideals. Time does not heal all wounds. Time merely forms a crusty scab over them that we can pick at when our guilt and sadness become overwhelming. I can say that I'm as sad today as I was on August 28, 2002. Just as sad, if not more. Yes, I'm relatively happy. I have a great boyfriend, a great family. But forever and ever I will feel this hole in me. And nothing will ever make it full.
When P died, do you know how many sympathy cards his mother got? Hundreds, I'm sure, including from my own family. Do you know how many I got? None. Not one single fucking card. (God, I sound like my sister-in-law who still won't talk to our family because we didn't give them wedding cards) I don't know if it was because I'm not as fragile as his mother, or if my love for him was considered less because we were no longer living together. Who knows. My brother J said to me shortly after P's death "P probably would still be alive if you hadn't left him." I knew that. I know that. I know that he said that out of sadness and loss, and never thought that those words would hurt me so badly, but believe me, I knew. How do you think that makes me feel, knowing every single day that I caused the death of one of this worlds better people? The only son of a woman barely hanging on to sanity. The beloved cousin of 20-some odd people. The friend of dozens. I know. I know. My sister in law, L, said to my father when she refused to come to P's memorial (and forbade my brother T not to go) "Layla only wants us there to alleviate her own guilt." I know. I know what people think. Everyone can say I'm not to blame, he was a grown up. I know.
No one called me yesterday to see if I was ok. No one remembered. I know that P struck their lives as deeply as mine, so it wasn't that. They just didn't remember. It happens. My friend S had his birthday yesterday, and he was a good friend of P. I didn't bring it up, because he's so hurt that he shares with P this day. I just wanted to cry and scream and yell and I couldn't. It just sucks. I sucks so fucking bad. It's my day to just feel sorry for me. I don't feel sorry for him. He's gone. He's not in this fucking blinding pain. We are. My nephew who loved P more than anything on earth tells me that sometimes he wants to cry, but he makes himself stop. He's 7. My little niece and new nephew will never know the person he was. They'll hear stories, the way I hear stories about my great-grandmother, and they'll almost know him. He'll be just a family member who's dead. They'll never hear his goofy laugh, or get a wet willie from him, or hear him speak passionately about African Elephants or Manatees or whatever animal he was dreaming about the night before. They'll never get poked in the chest with his finger as he's trying to get across the fact that he loves you and cherishes your friendship in his drunken way.
My dad always says "never get involved with a widow: they canonize their husbands even if they were shits." Not true. I know what P's issues were. I know he wouldn't do anything to help himself. I know he couldn't tell the truth to his mother about anything. I know he would cry when talking about his father. I know he couldn't talk to me about anything unless he was drunk. He was a horrible husband. He didn't give a shit about anything, and if he did, he kept it to himself. I ripped apart my family when I left him. They were all angry at the way I did it. I was stupid, I know. But no one lived my life. No one knew how trying every day was. I loved P, more than anything. I still do. But I'm not delusional about the life that P and I had together. But fuck. I miss that little bastard. P and I would have never gotten back together, but we had started to build this friendship that would have always been, if he ever got the balls to tell his family. The last time I heard from him was on June 3, 2002. He told me he missed me. He told me he was clean, and struggling to be good. I never heard from him again. I guess he could've said worse things to me. I just wish I had the chance to say goodbye. Don't we all?