B is gone.
I can’t even believe that I am sitting here typing those words. I literally feel like I’ve been punched squarely in the gut. The tears come at random times, sometimes completely unexpectedly, and for a second I wonder why I’m crying. Then it slams into me, full force, B IS DEAD.
Dead… how can 4 little letters hurt so fucking badly?
If he could talk to me now, I think that he would tell me to pray, to try to learn something from all of this. He knew that I have problems with faith, problems with God. If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve probably noticed that. But he believed, he prayed for me many times, maybe all the time. And while he was lying in that ICU bed, I prayed for him. I prayed so hard, if there is a God, he had to hear me. I prayed softly, begging, I prayed loudly, ranting… How could a benevolent God take away someone so wonderful, faithful, brilliant, caring, unselfish? Someone who believed in him, unwaveringly??
I suppose that if you are a believer, you should not ask why… it is His will. Well, if it’s his will, he made a huge mistake. GINORMOUS MISTAKE.
God, if you’re truly out there, you really screwed this one up. You’re falling down on the job. This is not acceptable. When you took my grandmother, I was pissed, but I understood, she was suffering, she was ready. But B?? Come on… he had gotten his life back together, after he had suffered, he was happy. Why take him now??
If there isn’t a god, then these things are random. Actually, that feels more acceptable. But I’m still mad; my heart is hurting beyond the words that I could use to describe it. Beyond the words that B could have used to describe it. Beyond what I feel capable of handling right now.
But, B would tell me that I could handle it, that I needed to take something from it, learn from it.
I am not so sure.
Maybe I should refocus on the fiction. He always encouraged me to finish it. He told me over and over how good it was.
I’ve always been filled with self-doubts, about everything, not just about my writing. Yet he always tried to help me overcome, accept and love myself. The hardest thing in the world for me.
Maybe my tribute to him should be to try to get healthier. Healthier in respect to my feelings about myself. Maybe, try to become the person that he thought I was??
To be smart, talented, generous, kind, beautiful (I’ll never believe that)…
And I really need to finish that novel; he was such a big part of it. I don’t know if I can even begin to tell Betsy’s story again without the heartbreak being churned back up to the surface. Will my heart hurt every time I attempt to finish the story? Hurt because I know that he and I will never share the late night conversations, with me reading my work to him over the phone… while he would help me work out the kinks, spitball ideas, laugh… My fiction is a little different, a little dark, it would be easy for people to draw conclusions about me from reading it. Some of the conclusions would probably be true, but most untrue. B didn’t, he admired the creativity, my imagination… and he encouraged it, more than I have ever been encouraged, EVER.
Can I write without him?
I guess only time will tell.
Wow… reading this, I feel so selfish… but it is MY loss, the world’s loss…
Maybe this is just a horrible nightmare??
Sadly, I can't convince myself that this isn't real.
B is gone.