Love & Its Inevitable Ending: Death

Death, Love, Relationships, Uncategorized

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He knew I could never live in a world where he doesn’t exist. 

I grieved him and us and what we had while he was still alive. I mourned the loss of our life and our love for almost three years. It was difficult but I always knew he was out there somewhere, walking around, laughing, dancing, living. But that’s all changed now.

I started this blog in an attempt to try and write him out of me, to try and write the words I was unable to speak, to tell the stories I could never tell. All in the hopes that one day it can finally be over. That I can finally stop loving him, stop hating him, stop feeling him.

114 posts; more than half about him; the man I loved more than life itself, the man who loved me, hated me and broke me. Gosh, he loved me. Sometimes I knew it, other times I questioned it.

114 posts about love {having love, losing love, thinking I’d found love to actually falling in love again}.

114 posts about heartbreak, pain, sadness, the inevitable healing and moving forward.  and the things I did to forget him. Trying in vane. Always. Because he knew I belonged to him and I knew it too.

114 posts about learning to live without him and they have to end today. They have to end today because he died. The love of my life, the man that changed my world, the man who owned my heart even thought he broke it several times over, he is dead.

His heart stopped beating Friday the third of March 2017 at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night in an area far away from where he and I shared a life, a home. Friday the third of March was when his life ended {taken}. His last breath drawn {taken}. He left. Me.

“23 Nov – We never even said goodbye to one another, baby we gonna be apart forever”

I have tried to be okay. Even answering the questions “are you okay” with a “yes”. Mostly lies because I’m not. I dream about him every night, he’s banging on my windows screaming my name, screaming for me to help him. But I can’t. I couldn’t. It wasn’t my job anymore. It was hers. She never did her job.

So I’m stuck with these questions in my head all day. Why was he there, why did he lie to her, why was he without her, why did he leave without his things, why was he in the street, what did he say to them when they approached him, did he scream for help? Did he try and fight back? Did he know he needed help.Why was there no one to help him? Because he never needed it that’s why! He was strong, and fit, he never needed help until that night. And no one was there.

I spoke with him briefly the Thursday, some time between 5 & 5h30pm, we laughed, he quoted Riel Prophets’ song “ChillinLike A Villain”. He loved rap music, hip hop…I never knew that would be last time I’d hear from him. I replied with a laughing face emoji and the words “I’m glad” …my last words to him was “I’m glad” because I was. He seemed up beat and relaxed. Staying out of trouble. I wanted to believe him. {Believe. The word tattoo’d on his arm, his motto, Believe} I wanted to. But that was the last time I will ever hear from him. Of him yes, the day I got the news I “heard of him” again. “They found his body” …”He’s dead” it said. But not from him. I heard of him. Because he is dead.

We always spoke about who would die first {I always believed I would because cancer runs in our family} and we spoke about who would tell the other about it. I told him I would feel it, the day he no longer breathes, but I didn’t, I felt nothing at all. I woke up that Friday, went to work, wrote my 114th post, mostly about him; again, and went on my merry way. In fact, I still spoke about him that Friday night, I said “I would have done anything to be with him, and I did, I did it for us, and love” I did everything. Everything I could, except be there when he needed me. When he died.

We never thought he would actually die, he was immortal you know {his words}, he was my superman {my words}. The one that protected me and also the one who I ended up needing protection from.

I woke up that Sunday, that’s when I got the news. That’s when I heard of him. I dropped my phone and started shaking. Crying. That was how I knew I would feel. Like my heart is breaking all over again, shattering into a million pieces. My already broken heart, breaking even further. He knew I could never live in a world where he doesn’t exist. He died anyway.

How did it feel to lose him? Like every goodbye ever said to me, all at once.

All. At. Once.

114 posts. And this, is my last one.

 

 

 

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Women & Relationships: When you’re living dead

Abuse, Break Ups, Cheating, Death, Love, Relationships, Sister, Uncategorized, Woman, women

After the break up two years ago I found myself doing something I’d never thought I’d do again so soon. Grieving.  The death of my relationship, but most importantly the death of me, the person I was before him.

You see, an abusive relationship kills you, figuratively and more often in some cases, literally. In my case it was the latter; my eyes were open, there was air moving in and out of my lungs, but there was no life inside of me. Inside, I was as good as dead.

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In the notebooks I found recently I can trace back the first violent incident to August 2011. He threw a plate at me for going out with colleagues after a work function. I can trace back the first lie to the very day we met again in April 2009 when I asked him “who’s car is this” because I knew what car he drove, and the one I saw that night was not it. “It’s my mechanic’s” he replied.  It wasn’t and I later found out that it was the woman he was living with, the women who called him her boyfriend…his girlfriend! It was her car! And I was in it. {Funnily enough, the mother of his child told me many times how he would come pick her up in my car and go out on dates, I never believed her because he always said she was lying…that’s karma for you}

Fast forward to May 2014…the day I told him to please leave, once and for all, and for the last time.  And so it started, as though what had been going on for the past few years wasn’t enough.

I spent each day after that last day in denial {yes, I hoped he would come back, and say he’s sorry…again} the pain, anguish. The anger and sadness overwhelmed me. I spent most mornings driving to work in tears and most night’s awake suffering from insomnia. Even when I could manage a few hours of sleep they too were tainted with nightmares, night sweats, heart palpitations & restlessness. My breakdowns were so severe, I couldn’t move, talk, and think…I was numb.

I never recognized this person, when I looked in the mirror or caught a reflection of what I had become. 2014 was a horrible year. I couldn’t let anyone see me like this, so I stayed away from everyone. The lies I told, oh my word the lies. All the “I’m fine’s” and the “It’s okay’s” and the “I’m busy I can’t make it’s”.  I was so good at it. Or so I thought,

My daughter, she suffered while I suffered. I couldn’t help myself so she tried, but was only 7 years old, it was never her job. I hope she knew it was never her, I tell her that now. She believes me. She says she’s happy to have her mommy back. I wish I could say the same because the person that came back is not who I was, I am not sure who she is quite yet…but I do believe she is getting better. My daughter say I smile a lot more, I laugh a lot more too.

But there is still so much anger inside of me. I feel it when comments are made that brings back a memory or two. In fact, just yesterday I got told in the most condescending tone of voice I have ever heard directed at me…“Look here, I know YOU  went through a bad time in YOUR relationship, but I …I actually give a damn about mine” And this was my sister. Hearing those words hurt me, it was unexpected and caught me completely off guard. All I asked was if she wanted to come with me to the food market on Sunday, but her finace is going to rehab because he is apparently a drug addict, yet she chooses to shout at me instead of leaving him… and I lost my shit and told her as such.

No one has the right to assume what it was I went through, what that “bad time” was like. No one has the right to talk about it in my absence or reference it in my presence unless I brought it up. This never happens, because I can’t ever bring myself to start telling someone my story. I try, so I share pieces of it, bordering on headings and summaries…and I wish I could, I wish I could see someone’s face as they hear what I have to say. So I can see the horror in their eyes, because that is what it was, it was horrible. It was absolutely horrible.

I cried last night. I cry often these days, as it leads up to the anniversary of the death of me, us, and him…the tears serve as a reminder. I don’t like these memories anymore but I know they won’t go away until I make new ones, with someone who is not him. With someone who’s love won’t hurt me. With someone who I am not scared of. With someone. Else.

And right there is where I find myself, stuck, because it’s kind of hard to live let alone love, when you’re dead.