I admit it. I wanted one last chance to say goodbye.
One last chance to tell you again all the “don’t give up” type of things I used say– the things you didn’t deserve to have me there to say.
One last chance to make you feel like someone believed in you, like you could be more than the shitty life you had doomed yourself to live.
Everyone wants more closure than they get, and I’m no different. I wanted to say goodbye. But not like this.
. . .
I wanted to tell you about the dream I had– not the first one though, where I confronted you and yelled “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE” and then clocked you a good one. Nor the one where we were together again, and again I felt the fear, the isolation, the inability to reach out, the horror of my voice being taken from me. No, I wanted to tell you about the the third dream; the one where my heart was filled with joy, because I heard that you were with someone new, and you had turned your life around and become what I always believed you could become. You had made it– made it through all the darkness and the mess; made it to the other side. There was no sign of illness: your lungs were whole, your kidneys were clean, your heart was strong, your mind had stitched together its crooked neurological pathways. You were a complete human being, mentally and physically, and you were with someone who made you happy. That’s the dream I wanted to tell you about, because somehow, inexplicably, even after all the hell you put me through– that was still what I wanted for you. I mean, sure, I wanted you to face consequences for your shitty behavior; but at the same time, I wanted you to change, and to live a happy, healthy, full life. I no longer wanted to have a part in that life, obviously, but that didn’t stop me from wanting it for you, for your own sake.
I wanted to tell you about all that, and more.
I wanted one last chance to say “I’ve become more than what was done to me, and I hope you become more than what you did.”
One last chance to say goodbye.
That last bit of closure.
Not closure for “US”, but closure for you and me as individuals. I didn’t want that “so what did our relationship add up to in the end? and what do we mean to each other anyways?” type of closure most people seem to search for. I always knew I never needed it, and eventually I even stopped aching for it. I also didn’t want to exchange anymore confessions; no more apologies and “I forgive you”s. I learned that receiving apologies has nothing to do with receiving peace. I learned that forgiveness does help with peace, but only inwardly. I may have forgiven you a long time ago, but telling you so is an empty gesture unless you’ve forgiven yourself.
See, I wanted the type of closure that comes from knowing you’ll be okay. Where I make you promise to call me up in 5, maybe 10 years, to tell me that my third dream came true; to tell me “hey I made it, and I hope you did too.”
That kind of closure. That kind of last goodbye.
. . .
But… there’s my fourth dream. The one I don’t need to tell you about, because it’s the one that’s becoming your reality. The one that makes it impossible for the third dream to ever come true. A part of me always knew that it would go this way. I mean, when you live the life that you do, it’s impossible to NOT consider that this could be the ultimate consequence. But I still hoped against hope that your body would defy the inevitable, and that it would stay alive through all the shit you did to it.
I wanted one last chance to tell you to stop the bad habits, to get help, to believe that recovery is possible and that there is no such thing as too far gone.
One last chance to remind you that you’re loved and never alone.
One last chance to tell you I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you. I couldn’t get to you, even after saying a hundred times “please, please, please, take care of yourself.”
I wanted once last chance to say goodbye. But not like this. Not when goodbye is the only thing left to say.