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The color of sadness

Engulfs my heart.

This color

Rips my emotions apart.

The joy you see

In the color of the sky.

Always brings a

Tear to my eye.

The color of the

The waters beautiful hue.

Is the color of my sadness

I hope you never feel it too.

My dad didn’t die. He was supposed to. I flew across half of our madly spinning space-rock to be with him, and he didn’t die. I packed up my notebooks of equations and cancelled my meetings in the dim offices of old men healthier than him to be by his side. But he didn’t follow through. Not the first time he hasn’t followed through. Not the first time I’ve dropped everything for him. It’s always his heart that doesn’t work right; that’s what puts him into the hospital, and what makes him stay out of my life.

My dad didn’t die. And so I have no idea what it is to grieve a father’s death. I have grieved his addiction, I have grieved his absence, but I have not grieved his passing. I got off the plane, jetlagged and a thousand euros poorer from the last-minute trip. I felt numb, trying to explain to the man at immigration why I was in Detroit. I didn’t know yet that my dad’s heart had started to work again while I was in the air. I didn’t know the music hadn’t died.

See, that’s the thing about him. My dad. His heart doesn’t work, but my god does that man make love to symphonies, embrace the curves of his violin, whisper sweet nothings to the classical masters. For every ounce of love that he withholds from me, he puts a magnum of wild, rushing adoration into that instrument. It overflows, it engulfs me, it overwhelms me, ever since my earliest days. With that adoration he gave our family life, provided us shelter, brought adventures to us. With that adoration he gave me the gift of passion and rhythm and the endless quest for the contradiction that is perfection in art. See, his heart doesn’t work, but his music – oh, his music – it works like the sun shines and the waves crash. The world can’t go on without it.

Up high in the clouds, disconnected from the truth, I grieved. I thought my dad’s heart stopped working once and for all; I thought he had died. And I didn’t grieve it. But in that same moment, when I thought the music had died, see, I grieved its passing.

So I do not know what it is to grieve a father’s death. I landed, and I learned that his heart – which the doctors say is bigger than normal, to all of our shock – had started to work again. I did not need to grieve that. But for one day, one transoceanic flight, I thought the music had died. And I know what it is to feel that loss.

We rescued Mach1e in December of 2002. She was an integral part of our family and our lives. My daughter had never known a life without our beloved dog in it. Fourteen years after her “gotcha” day she was having trouble walking and no longer had bowel and bladder control. No problem, we put her in diapers as that year we took in my mother-in-law’s Maltese, Mattie, after she got sick and eventually passed away. Mattie was never properly housebroken due to circumstances in my mother-in-law’s life, and was in diapers, so what was one more dog? Then two years after that, Mach1e was not moving at all and we quickly realized that she completely lost the use of her back legs. We went on like this for two months, carrying her wherever she needed to go, eventually bringing her food and letting her rest on the pillow she slept on. Then the bedsores came that wouldn’t heal. Finally, I made that difficult call to our vet, “It’s time to let her go.”

I’ve been crying all day, but now that the time has come, calm has settled over me. The world has been put on pause and time has come to a stand still. Silence has fallen over my thoughts for the moment. Blessed peace. I never feel peace, only pain. I know what I have to do.

My soul is shattered. My purity and virtue stripped away against my will. I feel the vile darkness slowly consuming me. I hate that I have become a miserable shell of empty hopes and dreams that will never come true. All I ever wanted was to be happy. To be liked. To be loved. But love is not mine to have. My entire life is nothing but pain.

I’ve tried to fit in, to overcome what has happened to me, to be normal – whatever normal is – I’m not even sure I know what it means to be normal anymore. All I know is that the world hates me. It doesn’t want me in it. I’m tainted, blackened, ruined forever. All I ever wanted was to be normal – NORMAL! That word again! What does it really mean?

It’s my fault. I wasn’t born a fighter. I’m broken, inside and out, not whole anymore. Nothing will ever make me whole again. Never pure. My world is such a lonely place. I wish someone would hug me. Just hold me. If only someone cared, but no one does. I can’t blame them. No one would want this corrupted body. I’m sure the thought of touching me would be sickening.

I’m a waste of space. I suffer in my own private hell everyday. I just want the pain to stop. I want to finally rest in peace, to sleep. I’m so tired. It’s time. I have to go away now.

Please tell my mom that I’m sorry and I love her. Please get her help.

-------------

Sarah signed the letter and laid the pen down on the vanity. She didn’t read what she’d written for fear that reading her own words would change her mind – it was too late for that. With one finger she absent-mindedly stirred a half empty cup that sat beside the letter, causing a straw to dance in the sloshing green liquid inside. Stunned by the wetness of the rogue finger, she slid it in her mouth, sucking it dry as she examined her reflection in the mirror.

Sad glazed green eyes accented with black eye shadow centered on a slim pale white face crowned by a halo of amber red hair peered back at her. The glaze grew more opaque with the passing of each methodical minute, making it increasingly difficult to focus. Tiny irritated veins in those eyes blazed red. On her thin black painted lips a stray speck of green liquid moistened the dryness. Using the corner of a tissue she dabbed away the blemish.

She stroked a stray lock of hair back from her cheek uncovering a delicate ear to which she gently pinned a silver butterfly-shaped earring – a gift from her father before her mother drove him away.

“My little cherry blossom,” he used to call her.

Her heart ached with the pain of how much she missed him and tears tried to break through her emotionless façade. With a deep breath, she sucked them back in – she would see him again soon. A thin smile flashed across the solemness of her face at the thought, but vanished just as quickly as she pinned a second butterfly to her other ear.

With a heavy sigh, she took another sip from the mug. The liquid zipped through the straw and doused the back of her mouth with its sweetness. Without hesitation she allowed the fluid to slide down her throat. She was beginning to feel light-headed, and her heart pounded in her chest, but she drew purposeful steady breaths and continued with the ritual at hand.

Around her neck she clipped a small silver necklace adorned by a modest crucifix – a gift from her father’s mom when Sarah was ten years old. The only other person to ever love her, granny had passed away from leukemia shortly after giving her the treasure. Her and her dad went to the funeral together, but her mom refused to accompany them claiming, ‘The old hag never liked me in the first place.’ That was the beginning of the end of Sarah’s parent’s marriage.

She let the crucifix fall into her trembling hand. Black polish painted bloodied fingertips that she’d chewed down to the quick. She held the symbol to her lips and whispered, “I love you,” before tucking the medallion safely away.

Her mother lay passed out on the bed down the hall sleeping off another heroine induced episode while the love of the month sat in the living room surrounded by empty beer and liquor bottles while he channel surfed. The house was silent other than the echo of rapidly changing voices spit out by the crackling television speakers.

“Tomorrow expect sunny skies with a high near ninety,” the local weatherman’s cheerful voice proclaimed before a hyperactive pitchman shouted about the greatness of a super towel that could absorb any mess. Too bad it couldn’t absorb the mess that was her life, she thought before the channel changed again.

You first invaded my thoughts almost 30 years ago.

We locked eyes across the room.

An electricity pulsed through me,

Instant connection without having said a word to each other.

I thought you felt it, too, during our flirtatious dance.

There were a couple mind-blowing encounters.

Kisses and caresses charged with chemistry and desire.

Then, out of the blue, you told me there was someone else.

That we didn't have a relationship,

It was only a few dates.

At least, that's what it meant to you.

I tried my hardest to move on.

But I was never able to feel the attraction I had to you.

Years later, you still creep into my thoughts.

Though to you, if anything, I'm a distant memory,

If you even remember me at all.

Before my grandmother passed, she gave my mother an angel pin and said that she wanted me to wear it. Mom-Mom was not the warm-hearted, cookie making, non-judgemental stereotypical grandma. She had a hard life and was bitter and cantankerous. I always felt like she didn't approve of me. I didn't have the right friends, I weighed too much, and was still single. In fact, there was a little jealousy and hurt that before her death, she gave a beautiful heart-shaped pendant to her daughter-in-law's sister's daughter rather than to me, her only granddaughter. Still, she thought of me with that angel so I wore it on my bra strap to honor her because I knew she loved me in her own way.

Shortly after her death, I met a man. He was very upfront from the very beginning that he was falling in love with me but having been burned in the past, I had my doubts. One afternoon, he was visiting my apartment. When he left, I noticed my angel was missing. I called him up in a panic asking him if he had seen it. He looked around his car and finally found it stuck to the bottom of his shoe. To to this day, I believe it was a sign that Mom-Mom was telling me, "I approve." We will be married 20 years next month.

Dear Me,

I am very sorry I made the decision to ghost my one true friend. It was not her that I wanted to get away from but the toxicity of someone she was closely associated with. Cutting her out of my life was not the right decision in the long run, but I did it for my own sanity during that difficult time. I know that as much as I will always care for her, there would be the shadow of her friendship with that other person who was and still is constantly trying to destroy me and everything that I care about. Due to this closeness, I would always wonder if she was discussing me with her, intentionally or not, providing more ammunition. I will always wish that I had the courage to explain this face to face. Instead, I pushed her away and said hurtful things that I will always regret. However, at the time, I had to put myself first and my need to disassociate from the drama. There is a lot that I wish I had done differently so that the friendship could be salvaged. She did not do anything wrong and was never the one I wanted to hurt. But, as others have suggested, it is time for me to move on, accept what happened, forgive myself, and treat current and future friends differently in the future. It's time to put the friendship in the past and realize that some things cannot be undone.

Love,

Myself