Five Years and I'm Still Missing You

I do not know how we forgive ourselves for the all things we did not say before it was too late. That’s a line from the poem I just read. A line ever beautiful and wise in its utterings. It’s been a long time since I’ve found something that gave me so much inspiration in just a moment. In fact, it was as long ago as middle school, when you left, with Shane Koyczan’s “When I Was a Kid”. His words spoke to me, though I couldn’t relate to much of what he was saying.

This poem inspired me to write about you, though now that I try I realize I’m so completely distracted by your presence that it’s difficult to start. I find myself in need of a reminder that it’s ok to start out slow. I don’t have to jump straight into something so huge so quickly. I can slip into it, like a thin, blonde bunny going skinny dipping. I can take my time with my descriptions and metaphors, weaving them like stories instead of words.

I’ve been scared to write about you. More scared than I was before just being in that house with Not You. I find reasons that make sense, but they slip away as soon as I go to grab them, like slippery little bastard fish.

Perhaps it’s the same wall I’ve been trying to break through with all my other writing. Maybe it’s nothing different even though it feels as if it couldn’t be more strange. More new, terrifying and wonderful.

Whatever reason, I don’t want it to hold me back. I’ve had enough of not writing. Not saying. My mouth is not sealed shut like it feels.

I miss you. I miss you like all hell. It’s been Five Years now, the longest five years of my life, and yet I still miss you. I guess that means what they say is true. They never really leave you when they die. They’re always with you, in your heart. I always assumed that because you had killed yourself you would have been violently ripped out, but no. You’re here, as you always have been.

I think about you a lot these days. It's like a mosquito hovering around my ears.

I’ve got your art up on my apartment walls. You would’ve been proud to see me move out before the others. You always said I was the manliest of them all. I always thought that was a strange thing to say to a girl, but I'll take whatever encouragement I can get. I'm always starving for it.

Some days I wonder if what you did really was selfish. Everyone tells me it was, but they’ve never felt sadness like we have. They haven’t been hurt the way we were, so I wonder if it’s that lack of perspective that keeps them from realizing that saying something like that makes people like us want to break their noses.

I’m not sure what I think. Obviously, I wish you hadn’t, but I think anyone would. Not only were you my only real dad, you were an incredible human. Better than I’ve come out to be. I’m 17 and already going insane in an office all day. Is there such a thing as an early life crisis? I think I’ve been having one of those since I was born. Or maybe it all started when he hurt me.

Sorry, getting off topic. The point is, I miss you, and I’m not sure what to think about you. I had all these feelings I wanted to get out through writing, but now that I’m doing it I can’t think of anything to say. Can’t think of some way to forgive myself for the things I never said. Guess that's the irony of these kinds of things. You get that feeling, that urge to write it all out, explain yourself, get all the blame away from you, and realize there's not much to really say. Well, except for one thing.

Think it’s okay if I say it now? Well, I don’t really need to ask, I guess, you being dead and all. Here it goes.

I love you. You’re a better dad than he ever was. Wish you were here so she’d stop going after men like Not You.