Broken Bella Donna

{January 2, 2014}  

20th November 2010 – the anniversary of my ex’s death after a VERY (over a decade) prolonged ‘recovery’ from an accident


I thought I’d be here tonight, blogging a depressing, sad blog, full of memories and regrets, and the sort of sad things you come up with on the anniversary of someone’s death. But I’m not feeling that way inclined at all.

I’m looking at a photo of you, taken a mere nine days before the accident which started the downhill slide of your life… and in it, you’re looking down the camera, you’re smiling. You’re holding your hands in front of you, in a peculiar fashion, but only I know what you were really doing. You’re smiling so hard your eyes are squinted, which is a shame as you had very handsome eyes. You’re wearing a jumper and jeans, both which we picked out one day shopping, on a break from college. And I know under that jumper is a necklace I gave you for your 18th birthday, the last birthday you were to have as a ‘normal’ person. And those hands holding the camera that took that photo, well on the left one was a ring, a blue topaz and silver ring that you bought for the owner for her 17th birthday, the last birthday she was to have as a ‘normal’ girlfriend.

And that photo is on the cover of your book, that your sister put together about your life. And that pleases me. That I could give your family the gift of a recent photo, before your accident. And that only I know all about it, our little private world, a secret, that all of the invasive procedures, all of the people who bathed you, saw your naked… they’ll never know.

If I knew then what I know now? I don’t know how different things would be?

I thought today would be hard.

I think… for some people, people who perhaps didn’t do the right thing by you all that time ago, that today is the anniversary of the day they realized how regretful they were, how sad they were to lose you before they had a chance to redeem themselves in their own eyes.

For some people, people who gave everything they could, today in the anniversary of closure.

For me, I’m the latter. Today is the anniversary of the day that I started to heal. It’s very hard to mourn someone who isn’t dead. And I spent eleven years in limbo, trying to be your girlfriend, and trying to deal with the shit that came with that. And then I was trying to be your friend, and trying to deal with the shit that came with that. And then I found myself drifting away from you… and then you drifted away from us. And once you were gone, and the chapter was ended, the book was closed – only then was I finally allowed to mourn that 18 year old boy I loved, my best friend that I lost so long ago. I was a 17 year old in a 28 year old body, sobbing for that teenage boy who lost everything. Sobbing for a teenage girl who lost everything too. And once I had a chance to do that… things felt better. Yes, I was sobbing for that 29 year old man who could’ve been anything, I was upset for the loss of him too… but he wasn’t the boy I hand fed ducks with. He wasn’t the boy I walked hand in hand with. He wasn’t the boy I kissed goodbye that night, not knowing it was the last time I’d watch him walk away. Then again I wasn’t that girl anymore, either.

Instead of just mourning your death, it was compounded. Compounded by the fact that I was mourning several deaths – of you in your present state, of you at the time of the accident, of my innocence. Of me, in a fashion. Not that I died… but part of me wilted, back then, and it is only just starting to bloom again now. And I’ve lost a lot of things I’ll never get back, lost a lot of time to learn the ‘normal’ things, lost people from my life who couldn’t wait for me, couldn’t handle it. People I will never forget.

And yes, I have regrets. I should’ve been there for you more in the last few years. I should’ve continued to support you when even half your family walked out. But I gave everything and more for a long time and it was just time to start giving back to myself. Can I forgive myself for not being there for you when you felt so victimized by life, and your situation? I can. Can you? I think you could. I hope you could.

Do I wish I was there that morning? Hell yes. If for no other reason than it would have saved us all this ongoing, dragged out process. Would you? I’m not so sure. I know you were sick of your life and I wouldn’t be surprised – nor would I blame you – if you had wanted out. To go from what you were, to where you were… I wished so many times it was me, not you. Because you had everything ahead of you, and I had little. You had so much to give and do, and I was on a crash course to no where, really.

I have all the closure I need, now. But your family… they need to know what happened. I’m not sure how I’ll feel when it’s finally decided. Do I want to know? Yes. Will the result change how I feel? I honestly do not know. I know I shouldn’t hope for manslaughter, or murder but part of me thinks if that were the case, then maybe it wouldn’t be so ‘sad’. People could feel angry, something would be done. There would be someone to blame, and they could be held accountable. Because no matter what the end result is, the simple fact is that there IS someone accountable. It’s just whether or not anything will be done to stop it happening again, is the question. And if this goes down as an accidental death, then it just seems like such an insignificant way to end such a significant chapter.

And yeah. I want certain individuals to read it and think… shit. Oh My God. I should’ve supported her. I should’ve been there instead of ignoring her pain. Which is selfish of me.

So where am I going with all this rambling?

Oh yeah. The anniversary of your death.

I would never call it a celebration… but it certainly hasn’t been as depressing as I had thought. Perhaps it will hit me, late at night when I’m tucked up in bed, perhaps I’ll sleep with tears on my cheeks again. But I’m not anticipating it. Perhaps I’ll reach out in the dark, like I have so many times before and cup my hand, close my eyes and pretend I can feel your face, run my thumb over your cheekbone. This act gave me some comfort, this time last year. But I’m not sure what it’ll represent now. Perhaps I’ll go to sleep holding a bear you gave me. But more that likely I’ll to go sleep cuddling the dog.

Why the hell don’t I feel sad?


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