Okay, Asshole. First off, don’t get used to this writing every day shit. Second, just shut up and listen. You have a fucking voice now, playing in my head. I’m fucking hallucinating, and I haven’t touched a drop. You sound like David. Of course; he’s always been the devil on my shoulder, so it’s not really a surprise, but if you start cracking wise, it’s into the fireplace with you, word or no word.
Christ, I’m fucking losing it. I’m talking to a damned notebook.
Anyway.
Two weeks ago, Ava made me put up the Christmas tree and decorate it. I’d do anything for that little girl. Then she put on Christmas carols. Everything felt okay, and while we hung lights and tinsel and boxes of ornaments and shit, it was nice. When we were done, the thing was beautiful. Then Ava left with her mother, who gave me such a look of pity I wanted to die. She didn’t even look at me like that when I went to rehab.
When I was by myself, sitting there with a glass of virgin eggnog in my hand, I was just staring at the fucking tree, you know? Like it held the answers I was looking for. Like if I stared at it long enough, it’d be Thanksgiving again, and Jen would still be alive, and I could tell her to wait until after the holidays to make the move – that moving cross-country at Christmastime was silly, and January would have been fine.
If I had only done that, she’d still be here. But I didn’t, and she’s not. And Christ help me, I missed her something fierce right then, so I played the CD I badgered Obie into burning for me of Jen’s voicemail message, even though I can recite it by heart.
“We’ll probably laugh about this later, but something seems to be wrong with the engines, and I just wanted to tell you that I love you and whatever you wanted to ask me when you see me, the answer is a big ol’ YES I’m gonna get yelled at by the stewardess if she sees me, so I gotta go. I love you more than my own life, Rich, and I can’t wait to see you. Bye!”
Why the FUCK did I let her get on that plane?
T said that I can’t blame myself. That it wasn’t my fault – but she’s wrong. It is my fault -- at least partly. If not for me, she wouldn’t have been on that particular plane at that particular time. I know that for a fact. She hated to fly! She was doing it for me! How unselfish is that? And here I was, not even flying to Boston to get her. NO, here’s me, sitting at home, waiting for her to land like some selfish dick.
Jon says if I had gone, then we’d both be gone, and what good would that be? Then Ava’d be without her father, and he’d be up shit’s creek without me. I know he’s right about Ava, and was trying to make me feel better with the other, but dammit he’s being reasonable, and I don’t want reasonable. I want someone to agree with me. To tell me I’m right. Vindication won’t make anything better, but if I hear one more platitude I’m going to take a baseball bat to someone’s head.
Jen would have laughed at that.
God, Jen.
Today was the day – did you know that, Asshole? I was going to propose to Jen the RIGHT way today: dressed up in her favorite suit, with the tie she gave me, down on one knee on the beach with the sunset behind us, the waves crashing on the shore – the whole fucking romantic deal. Jen would have loved it.
And she would have said YES. She knew it, dammit. She knew I was going to ask her to marry me – to be a part of my life for as long as she would have me. She married me in the end – in that fucking hospital room – using her parent’s rings as our own, but it’s not the same. I didn’t get a chance to hold her in my arms and dance with her. I didn’t get a chance to take her to some secluded beach and make love to her in the surf. I didn’t get a chance to watch her get big, beautiful and glowing with our children. God, when I imagine what could have been?
I should be sitting on the sofa with her wrapped around me, watching the tree and planning our future. I should be singing to her – sweet songs, sexy songs, whatever. I should be plotting where to try to take her on our honeymoon where she doesn’t have to fly because she hates – fuck, hated – to fly.
Instead, Asshole, I’m sitting here like a damned school girl, writing in a fucking diary. I’m supposed to get all my feelings out on paper, so me and Dr. Santa can “talk” about them at session. So we can figure out how to help me “get past the pain” and start living life again.
Well, Asshole, that’s bullshit. Yeah, I can admit that it feels good to get this out, and if I look at the clock, I know I’ll be surprised at how much time has passed. But this isn’t going to fix anything. Nothing’s going to help.
I’ve written you four frigging pages, Asshole, and you know what? Writing about my “feelings” isn’t going to make me miss her any less. It isn’t going to make the pain any less. Ever.
Yeah, Asshole, I fucking miss her. I miss her every time I take a breath. It’s not fair that she… that she’s not here because of me. Hey, don’t tell me different. She never would have been on that plane if it wasn’t for me. I know it and you know it, and no amount of talking is going to change that. Ever.
Now Jonny says he wants to go back into the studio. He says the world is changing – there are lots of stories to tell, and we have to tell them. Like I give a shit. I just can’t. How can I make magic when I can’t even HEAR the music anymore? Not yet anyway. It’ll come back; I know it will. Just not yet.
He tells me I can’t give up my existence for a woman I knew for less than a year. He’s lucky he ducked, or instead of a bruised cheekbone he would have had a busted nose. He has no fucking RIGHT to tell me how I’m supposed to feel. I FEEL like I’ve known her forever. I FEEL like I have a hole in my heart.
God, I need a drink.
But I won’t, Asshole, okay? So just shut the fuck up. And stop sounding like David. I’ll sit here and stare at this ring, and write in this stupid journal like a girl, but don’t give me shit about it.
What the fuck, right? I may as well keep up with it, right?
I guess it can’t make things any worse.
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