I don't believe in ghosts, but I do believe that I've been haunted.
She visits me in my dreams sometimes.
Sometimes I can just feel her here.
This has very much been the case this last week or so.
Her birthday was yesterday.
She died seven years ago tomorrow.
This diary captured her, at least my feelings toward her.
I wrote about her on here the day that I met here.
I wrote about her a lot. I loved her more than I can say.
But I fucked up. I fucked it up.
And then she died.
But that's not what I came on here to write.
I came here to write about how I let her go.
On Monday, I told my therapist about how I still see her sometimes. About how I judge every woman I meet against her. How that becomes a more impossible standard each year, because she becomes much more beatified in my mind as time goes on.
Maybe you just need to release her, my therapist said. Maybe she visits you because you are still clinging on to her.
So that is what I did.
Yesterday, I drove the hour and a half long drive to get to where her ashes are scattered. I sat on a rock. I wished her happy birthday and read her the tribute that I wrote to her and posted on Facebook. I cried a lot.
I have this collection of her things that accidentally got destroyed while in storage. One of the only salvageable things was the little gold bag that contained sand from White Sands, NM. We went there together. We filled up that bag with sand.
I took that bag with me and stood over the place where her ashes were scattered. I cut the yellow ribbon on that gold bag and released the white sand.
I told her that I loved her, but I had to let her go. I had to move on. I had to forgive myself. I had to allow myself to really love again.
I told her that I hope she visits. I asked her to guide me so that I chose to love the right person.
I told her I don't want to be alone anymore.
I sat there with her for a long time. Until the sun went down.
Then I went to her favorite bar and had a pint in her honor.
I saved the yellow ribbon that held the sand. Both pieces now adorn my bookshelf.
They represent that all things are impermanent and one shouldn't cling to anything.
They represent the hope that I will someday love again.
I miss her. But now I know I will be okay.
9:01 p.m. - 2015-09-23
Recent entries:
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Why I Will Probably Write on Here More - 2015-10-05
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Little stabby feelings in my stomach - 2015-09-28
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