Today, of all days, is one that I hate the most. It’s the 26th. On this day 11 months ago my husband, William, committed suicide. I try not to think about it, but it just happens. The memory of his smell haunts me. He was my best friend, my lover, my everything and now he’s gone.
I sit here drinking the wine that I was drinking the night we met. I should say met again. We actually met in Junior High School. I remember him standing, with one foot on the wall. Wearing jeans and his cowboy boots. Of course long hair, it was the 70’s. He told me once that if we could find his 7th grade annual I would know he’d been in love with me since then.
How could this happen? How could I have not known? He was my everything and now he’s gone forever! It was maybe 1 minute before I found him. I still have the bullets. Black talon tipped. Held one to my forehead. Thought about using it. I haven’t yet.
I’m sitting here on a Saturday night, by myself, feeling sorry for myself. Missing the man of my dreams. I don’t know what to write anymore. It’s supposed to be therapy. All it does is make me cry. I can barely see the screen. Saying I miss him doesn’t even come close to the way I really feel.
I wish my life was different now. But it’s not. I’m a basket case. Being bipolar doesn’t help. I know if I say how I really feel they’ll lock me up somewhere. I’ve learned a lot since all this has happened. What to say, when to say it. How to act, even if you want to kill someone. This whole ordeal has left me a different person than what I was 11 months ago. I don’t like it, but I don’t have a choice.
I hate today…