Monday, October 13, 2014

i was so tired and so disappointed that i wanted nothing more than to be alone.


Dear Oliver,
The pain of missing you isn't going away. It doesn't lessen during mental health week. It doesn't ease when I talk to counselors or my psychiatrist. Nothing makes it go away - although sometimes it changes.
When I'm packing possessions into boxes and come across my pelvic ultrasound images from my time in hospital. Remembering how you walked me as far as they would let you go and when I explained, vaguely and uncertain at that point, about the blood and what happened, you looked at me and said simply, that's terrible. The fact that I deserved better was implied. The fact that you were disgusted by how someone could do that was plain. But your comfort and friendship was overt, your care.
It hurts because the world keeps turning. People don't acknowledge it or ask me about you as much now. What's there to say anyway? Everyone exists with the possibility of being lost, just not the intent. I'm terribly sad that you were both. I'm terribly sad you couldn't be saved.
I've been emailing your mum ever since I found out. It's hard, you know? I'm angry that no one thought to tell me and sad because there are so few people to share you with. It's all tied up in hospital bureaucratics and I have so many unanswered questions. I know your mum is going to scatter your ashes soon. I wish she wouldn't. I don't want you to escape the containment, don't think I could cope with any more precarious of a connection.
I'm thinking of getting a hummingbird tattoo soon. Maybe in your memory, maybe just to symbolise how far I've come in my own recovery. It feels funny to choose a part of my body based on preference and not to cover scars. I think you would have looked really cool with sleeve tattoos and I'm sad that no one ever suggested it. You shouldn't have felt so much shame for visibly surviving...no one should.
I don't know what else to say. I'm trying to eat more vegan-friendly. I've moved house and my new housemate, yet to be nicknamed, reminds me of you (same age, similar mannerisms). That hurts too.
I'm really fucking sorry that you died and that the world no longer contains you. I'm sorry for all the times that we discussed suicide as a viable option. I'm sorry that it felt inevitable to you (sometimes it still does to me too). I'm sorry because you deserved so much better.
You were loved, Oliver Peter. You were fucking loved.
*