Babe, this sucks. I miss you so, so much. It will be 9 weeks, this Wednesday. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss you coming home from work and us talking about our days. I miss talking to you, period.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to throw away that chocolate milk that we had in the fridge the day you left. It legit looks like a lava lamp, now. My friend suggested I replace it “bank heist-style” with a new jug. I bought the new jug, last week, but couldn’t bring myself to toss the old one. So then there were just two chocolate milks in the fridge. Then, this morning, I took the new one out and dropped it- there was glass everywhere. No use crying over spilt milk, right? So I yelled “Fuck!” really loudly, instead.
I’m getting better about being in crowds, but at the pride parade, yesterday, I suddenly had the realization that if the police couldn’t identify you from the license in your pocket, it’s because you fell on your face. In 8 weeks, I don’t get that far in my thought process, then all of a sudden I have an epiphany. I could not stop thinking about it during this parade. Even when I got distracted it kept coming back. Of everything that haunts me from that night, thinking about what you must have looked like after you fell is the worst part. One of the books I am reading said most people who view their person’s body don’t regret it, but then I don’t know how many of those people are already in a morgue, where they cover up any part of your body that is broken. I wish they had let me see you once we found you, but then maybe I don’t. I think my imagination may be worse than however you did look, though. I’m going to try to get the medical examiner’s report, this week. And the park police report. The report from MPD is literally two sentences, but I think it’s because the park police responded first.
I really, really, really hope you weren’t scared. I’ve heard/read both that it’s a relief after the jump but also that survivors of failed suicide attempts say they regretted it, immediately. I hope you were at peace. I hope you’re at peace, now.
I’m starting to work on lucid dreaming so I don’t have to stay up so late at night, anymore. I’ve been sleeping on your side of the bed since you left but it’s kind of triggering. So is the thought of going back to my side.
This hurts so fucking bad, babe. The apartment is so empty without you here.
Hugo and I started jogging on our morning walks. He has gotten so much better outside (I switched him to only chicken). We’re working on not having to cross the street when other dogs approach. It’s going pretty well- you would be so proud.
I keep going back to your computer and looking for more pieces of the puzzle. Which is useless because with every new piece I add, the puzzle just gets bigger. The questions don’t go away, they just become more refined. My theory changes every week. And I will never know, really, because you’re dead. Ugh.
I hope you know how loved you were and are still.
It’s funny, last month I was so worried about time passing, because with every day you feel less alive and become more of a memory. I kept saying I wished I could freeze time in the day after you died, when you were still alive less than 24 hours ago, when shock was my strongest emotion. But if I’m wishing for things, why not just allow myself to wish you never jumped? Would that be too good to be true in my mind? They are both impossible scenarios, so why not indulge? And then, at some point between Blake and Tania’s wedding and last week, it occurred to me that it no longer feels like you’re just at work and I’ll be able to tell you everything when you get home. I don’t stand in the kitchen thinking you’re just in the office on your computer, anymore. I hate that. I’m upset about it, as if if I had actively watched these feelings dissipate, I could have stopped them. I could not have stopped them, though. There was never any way I could stay in those feelings, because time passes, whether I’m ready for it to or not.
The people above us are walking around a ton for 2:30 in the morning and it’s making me feel like there is someone in the house.
I just can’t believe I am in our bed, in our apartment, alone with Hugo. You’re supposed to be here with us. My heart…
I love you.