Undelivered Letters

The saying that the pain is temporary feels like the opposite ever since all the tragedy.  For me, it feels more like happiness is temporary. Honest to God.”

The above were words I recently came across that I had written down about three and a half years ago. Unable to sleep, I was alone waiting for my then husband to come home like almost every other night he worked. He frequently did not come home rather staying out all night and getting drunk with his coworkers.

As I read on, it became apparent that the words I was writing were a sort of letter to David, however, he never read it unless he happened to snoop as I came to find out he had done in the past. When confronted regarding this issue shortly after my mother’s death, he claimed that he was doing so out of the familiar fear that I may be suicidal and wanted to stay one step ahead – a preventative measure if you will.

At the time, I accepted his defense despite feeling utterly violated and disrespected. And I accepted his defense because there was a part of me – that part that didn’t wish to exist in a world where happiness seemed a temporary state. His justification created an intense and provisional sense that he deeply cared for me – just not enough to forego staying out until four ‘o’ clock in the morning with twenty-something service industry personnel, becoming collectively inebriated beyond recollection.

I’ve also been dwelling on the details of my mother’s death.  On one hand, this is good for my writing but the problem is I’m not writing it down.  I’m just reliving the experience in my head.”

I went on to therapeutically write words to David with little intention of delivering them. To this day, I attempt to search blindly for compassion for a boy who couldn’t possibly have grasped the sheer anguish or recognize the incessant darkness that enveloped my soul and violently clawed at what was left of my wounded heart. To this day, I am unable to really grasp any compassion, unable to see through the warranted anger of a woman deliberately left alone, to walk through that dark all by herself day in and day out – no hand to hold, no ounce of respite.

Do I believe that David wanted to be a better man? A better boyfriend? A better husband? Yes. Do I believe that he tried unequivocally hard to do so? Absolutely not.

I often feel desperate and expectant.” I continued. Never in my life have I ever felt more desperate than the three years I spent with David. Coupling that with expectancies was a recipe for complete disaster and often leaves me pondering how different my life would be today had I made subtle but timely, opposite decisions. For example, what if the night of our first major fight I had ended things and moved back to Los Angeles? Or, not so subtle, what if I had never married him? I know that these types of thoughts are unproductive but it doesn’t hurt anyone, I cannot help myself and it makes for interesting writing.

I went on to type, “Sometimes, I’m able to think rationally and logically and most of the time, it just pushes me deeper into a dark place.” Today, I recognize that my “rational” and “logical” thinking had nothing to do with my feelings, my emotions – the inner turmoil taking place within the outer turmoil that I was subjecting myself to. Rational and logical thinking does nothing for matters of the heart.

I concluded this undelivered letter with, “I am hoping that this gets better once we move and once I find the strength to remain motivated, consistently.” I was clearly hopefully anticipating our move to Los Angeles from New York. “This” got better once I removed the toxicity from my life and “this” is continually in improvement mode. Los Angeles is thankfully just the setting for this righteous revival.


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