Allow me to start by apologizing for the following journal entry. It's not going to be about my writing, or anything like that. It's going to be about me. And it's not going to be very happy, because I'm not feeling happy right now. I'm sad. But I'll get to that. Please be warned, the following is going to be very personal to me. VERY personal. I'm not 100% sure why I'm writing it, but I am. I guess I kind of have to. I'm a writer, so I write. For the last year, I haven't written much, and it's sort of starting to hurt me, though I know that doesn't make sense. I'm feeling things that I'm not putting into words, and I can't explain it to you, it just hurts. so here I am. Sitting before a computer screen that has seen more of my faces and emotions than any of my friends. Crying. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. Please know that this is not some cry for help. I don't want sympathy, and I don't want you to feel bad. I just want someone else to know what I'm feeling. That is why I write after all. And after a year of running from my writing, I hurt. A lot. God, I know I'm dabbling, I'm sorry, but I guess I'll start now. I don't know how long I'm going to write. Sorry. I just have a lot to say. A lot that I need to write, because I have a really hard time reading things when I don't put them into words before me. So here we go.
It started just under a year ago. Closer to eleven months actually. I was in love with a girl. Deeply in love with a girl. So much that it hurt not to be with her. I don't really know how to explain it. It felt like she just filled in the gaps. I didn't hurt anymore when she held my hand. She made me smile more than anything in the world, and I can't describe her by comparing her to the most beautiful things on the Earth because they would do her no justice. I was in love. So much so that I was sure, without a doubt that this girl was the girl that I wanted to give my life to. Her name was Marit McKenzie. She was perfect.
On the morning of January 26th, 2o13, I got a call from her dad, Bruce. He asked me to come to the hospital to see Marit, because she was sick. The night before I was actually hanging out with a lot of my friends, so a few of them were there with me that morning, and they knew that something was wrong when I hung up the phone with tears streaming down my eyes. I left for the hospital immediately.
Two days she was in the hospital. I was there, with her family and closest friends. Crying. Crying some more. Hopeful. Whispering to her and hoping that she'd wake up, kiss me, and tell me that everything would be okay. I was once told that people in comas could still hear those around them. I was hopeful. Two days we were in the hospital, waiting. In the late evening of January 27th, 2o13, we were told that she was brain dead.
I'll be honest. I don't remember too much of what followed. My dad picked me up from the hospital that night. My dad, who I hadn't had a close relationship with for several years. My mom was out of town so I stayed the night at his house. I remember the drive from the hospital to his house rather clearly. First we stopped at my mom's house to pick up my brother, Miller. Than we drove to my dad's house, the next town over. The whole time I was crying. I couldn't look either of them in the eyes. I'd never, once, in my entire life seen my dad cry, but that whole, long drive home he cried. And he swore. He swore a lot. "It just isn't fucking fair, Mac. It isn't fucking fair." And it wasn't.
I didn't sleep that night. I just cried.
I stopped writing that night.
Soon enough though, everybody had to get back to living, right? I wasn't ready when they were. They went back to the regular daily grind, and I think they expected me to as well. They hoped that I would. So I sort of pretended to. I went back to school, and to work. But it all felt fake. I remember one night, February 22nd, nearly one month later, when I ended up halfway across the city in my best friend's arms balling my eyes out. But I kept trying. I kept trying to go back to my daily life. But a song would come on, or something would happen that made me think of her, and I'd start to cry.
But I wasn't in it alone. Marit's best friends and I quickly became close, spending a lot of time together. Around my friends, or my family, I felt like I had to put a mask on to hide my sadness, but around them I could be myself. I could feel my own emotions again. and then, and I'm not sure when it happened, but one day along the road, I smiled. And then I felt guilty, and I cried.
I started to smile more often. Some times they were real smiles. I started finding things that brought joy to my life. I took up long-boarding, and obsessed over it. I was addicted to it. I took up swing dancing with my friends, and became likewise addicted. Hell, I had a lot of fun! I really, really enjoyed it! I made new friends. I cut my hair shorter. I worked out a bit, and drew a little here and there, and laughed, and went out for drinks with friends. Somewhere along the way, I took up the phone and called my dad. I re-kindled our friendship, and I couldn't be happier. I went to a summer writing camp, and met new people, and I loved them so much. I remembered what it felt like to have friends, and make friends again! I kept going dancing. I finished my first year f University. I forgave God, and started to go to church again. I started my second year of University. I momentarily worked for a literary magazine. One day, I even looked at myself in the mirror and smiled; I liked what I saw. I liked who I was. I smiled. And then, while I was smiling, a tear ran down my cheek. Soon followed by another. All day long I smiled and laughed with my friends, and every night I went home and cried.
And I've kept crying. Every free moment, when no one is watching. If you'r one of my friends, and you're reading this, I'm sorry. Don't get the wrong idea! Thank you. I need you guys. But here's the thing, and here's where it kinda starts to get personal. Here the thing that's been bothering me since I first started to smile again.
Every time I look in the mirror, no matter how happy I am, no matter how good my day has been, she still isn't standing beside me. And every time I look in the mirror with that silly grin of mine, I see something that has changed. I took up long-boarding. I started dancing. I went to summer camp, and made new friends. Every time I look in the mirror I see a me that is farther and farther away from the me that she saw every day. The me that she loved. The me that she wanted to spend her life with... and I have to wonder, would she still love me?
Now I know you're all probably thinking the same thing. It's a stupid question. I know that. But it doesn't change the fact that it keeps me up crying late into the night, thinking. Wold I even recognize the me from a year ago. And then I start thinking. And that scares me. When I start to think, and there are no distractions to stop me, I keep thinking. And that leads to more thinking. More questions.
And, as usual, I cry. A lot. But that is nothing new.
But there is one thing that keeps coming up to me. Something that has been repeated to me time and time again in the last year. By my grief counselor. My mom. My dad. My other grief counselor.
One year. A person in grieving has one year to come to terms with their loss, or else it may cause permanent psychological stress for the rest of their lives. One year to say 'I'm okay now' and mean it. It's been eleven months and I haven't gotten much closer.
But it seems like everybody around me has. It seems like they're okay at last. And don't get me wrong, that makes me very, very happy! But here I am. Crying myself to sleep almost every night.
Don't get me wrong though! there are times when I've thought I'm getting there. To a point when I can move on, and be okay. Problem is, each time I recoil back harder, and end up just hurting more.
I don't know what to do.
So I'm just going to be honest. Painfully honest. I hope that anyone of you still reading this doesn't judge me for it, but I'm a writer, and I write to understand my feelings, so here we go.
At one point, I thought I was okay because I found someone really kool. Somebody that I liked. A lot. But that hurt. A lot. I felt happy with her but it hurt like hell when I thought about it, and tat just confused me. For those of you who know me well, you'll know that I love the idea of love, and being in love, and the idea of never being in love again horrifies me, almost as bad as the fear of loving someone that isn't her. But I don't know what to do. When I was with this person, I felt like maybe I could be okay. But it hurts, and it's confusing. I know that if I was the one who passed away I would have wanted Marit to be able to move on. I know that if she found someone who made her hurt less, I' be cheering for her from heaven... but it still feels like betrayal. And I don't know what to do about that. I just cry a lot and never get anywhere. I don't know what to do.
But I guess that's why I'm writing. I'm hoping to figure it out.
Gosh, at this point I hope that nobody is actually reading this XD It's awfully embarrassing.
But I've gotten this far. Might as well keep going.
I started thinking about writing a story. A story about a boy who's love passes away. About how he deals with it, and moves on, and I came back to this idea a lot in my free time. But here's the thing. In every different version of the story I concocted, it ended with the boy finding a girl, who made him feel loved again, and who cared about him. I liked these endings. But then one day I realized that the girl in these stories was the girl that had passed away. It had to be her again, because he was so in love with her, but then I felt bad because I didn't want to find a replacement I wanted to find someone new! But it just had to be her.
That's another fear of mine. It's not fair, if I move on to the new girl. She'd be living in a shadow of perfection. And that's not fair. I don't want to do that to anyone. I just want to be in love. To be loved. but I can't because she's gone.
Bleh. Fuck. I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I'm crying, and I'm tired, and yet somehow I feel better. God I love writing. I needed this. I'm sorry to anyone who endured reading through this. I know it must not make sense.
I'm also sorry if you came into this knowing what had happened, and hopeful that this post would have a happy ending. An I'm okay now'. Because it doesn't. Because I'm not okay yet.
But don't get me wrong. MY smiles are real. I... I do enjoy living again. And I'm glad I didn't listen to the little voices a year ago and stop that whole living thing. because I loved you guys too much. But I'm just not okay yet. But one day I will be. And you'll be the first to know about it.
Is it bad to say that I want to be in love again? That I want to be loved again? I don't know. I'm confused. I'm sure this won't be the last post about this. Bleh. I don't know. If anyone actually read this through, I dunno, and you have something to say, I'd love to hear it. Tell me if I'm being an idiot. What would you do in my situation? Any advice? I dunno. But writing does make it hurt less, so... yeah.
Hehe, if no one made it this far, then I get to be mushy and no one will know.
I love you guys. Everybody who reads what I write, and who cares about me. Every comment and critique, and like, and all that jazz, it gives me the boost I need. Writing means the world to me. It hurts not to write. Yeah. Thanks. Love you guys.
Writing also opens up my thoughts a lot. It helps me realize things I haven't before, and writing this post has done just that. I've gotta go think on some things that I've written, and maybe, just maybe find the secret to being okay. Who knows. Maybe I'll even get some sleep or something.
Sorry again for the random rantings.