and I still love her, and I still wish I was with her, and I'll still never know what happened, and I still wish I could have been better, and I still wish I could just talk to her.
See? Told you you'd read it before.
It just never ends. That's what sucks. It never ever ends. I've got tears dried on my face and I'm not bothering to do anything about them because, hey, why should I? I'll just get more. It won't change a thing.
I have nothing to do here, and part of me is trying to get me to erase "here". I mean . . . I help people, I talk, I do what I can, I can't do anything. Not recently. I get a smile or two occasionally, and people vent at me because I can listen, but . . . I haven't done anything of note. (not that I really did.) I haven't even been able to help people recently . . . and really, that's all I wanted. (all I wanted was to help her.)
I suppose it sounds like I'm crying here, or feeling terrible, but . . . it's all just sort of gray and flat. I've been here, I've done this, over and over and over and over and nothing changes. Nothing ever fucking changes.
My parents are finally (finally) realizing what she meant to me, after yet another round of "how're you?" "eh." "why?" "you know." My mom says that the average recovery period after a serious loss is three years, and that I should look up the stages of loss. Well, there seem to be a good half dozen or more out there, and all I can tell you is I'm past denial and a long way from acceptance. I've been through anger, despair, and "Bargaining with God" many many many times. (bargaining with a god you don't believe in. how much more pathetic does it get?)
and yet it doesn't change anything, it doesn't change a thing. I'm still trapped in this cycle, going aroundandaroundandaround. I still love her. I still want to be with her. I still want to know what happened. I still want to hear her voice again. I still want to talk to her. I still realize that the chance of any of that is round about nil.
(what did I do to deserve this?)
(oh. wait. that's point 3 up there in that last paragraph.)
it doesn't end, and by now you're probably tired of reading this. I know I'm tired of writing it, not that that really changes anything either.
Pretty soon I go downstairs, to sleep in the bed she slept in before I left for college, next to the room I got my first kiss in.
somehow I'm not looking forward to it.
Remind me why I'm doing this when I seem incapable of actually succeeding in anything?