I was deadly serious when I had previously mentioned with great conviction I was no longer going to write about Melissa, our division or anything pertaining to those things. That declaration seemed like a fine idea and a terrific way to move on. It wasn't a bad idea but it certainly wasn't a good way to move on in any respect. Despair set in even more vehemently after deciding to "be over her." Voluntary repression hardly ever engenders relief. Any therapist worth their salt will tell you that.
My apartment, which I often still refer to as "our" apartment, is full to bursting with relics of our truest love. There is scarcely an item in this place that does not have Melissa's literal and phantasmic fingerprints layered upon them. I put on a bandanna yesterday and it smelled just like her. It smelled the way she smelled when we crawled in the grass next to the pond at my school when we had known each other only a matter of hours. And it smelled the way she smelled when she came over after Thanksgiving to gather her belongings from our bedroom. Needless to say, I donned the bandanna and cried into the linguini I made to eat alone. JennyAnyDots, our cat, ran under the table to hide because I began to stumble from sobbing so vigorously.
If I deny these things I am doing myself a grave injustice and I am lying to Melissa. In truth, I do not want her to think I am doing well. I am not. I do not want her to think that everything is copacetic and I will endure. Because most of the time I am not sure I will. I want to fully know what has been lost here and I want Melissa to know the same and be able to grieve it. By pretending I am healing, stable and sane I rob her of the chance to feel sad about what is taking place. That seems dangerous to me because it could shrink her heart. I believe in her heart and the immense possibilities of it. I love her dearly and to deprive her this opportunity to grow as a human with the mighty capacity to feel deep loss and love and fully understand these things no matter how much of it comes out in pain is not a loving thing for me to do. And I desperately love love. Nothing gives me more anguish than when I see love being put aside or disrespected. By myself especially because then I have to deal with the fact of my hypocrisy which is always bound to appear but is always so terrifying to face.
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