For Amanda.
I've always used writing. As a tool, as a therapy, as a weapon. I can write when I cannot speak, and when the words won't come to my lips, they come to my fingertips. May the writing bring the words to you and the peace to me, because it's too late for anything else. There's nothing left now but the writing.
I have so much to say to you and no more time now to say the things that need saying. I cannot make sense of it, I cannot breathe around the loss of you. I have so many regrets, so much I wish I would have done. So much. I don't even know what to say to you. I tried, there at your viewing, standing at your coffin and gazing at what used to be you. I tried to say the things that needed saying, but the words wouldn't come. It was too late to say them anyway. Instead, I cried for you. I cried and in my head it was "no, no, no, no, NO!" Everything went through my mind then. That wasn't you and this isn't real, but it was. Horribly, terribly, irrevocably real. You're gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
It's too late to help you. Too late to say the words. Too late, too late, too late. The regrets don't matter, none of it matters now. The causes, the beliefs, the compassion, the rage and pity and passion and love--it all seems so empty without you here. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you.
We buried you in the ground. Before that, though, I stood by your body one last time and told you goodbye. I slipped the To Write Love On Her Arms bracelet off my wrist and under your fingers, and I said I was sorry. I gave you the bracelet that represents something so huge to me, that has become such a part of who I am. The story of a girl with an addiction. The story of a girl like you, only she is still here, and you are not. That girl with the addiction started a movement from nothing good. Her pain, her struggle, her need and rage and heartache landed on the pages of a blog and from that, To Write Love was born. She got help, and the organization has gone on to help so many people. So, so many. And me, too. To Write Love reached in and gave me hope in the darkest depths of my despair. I believe in the message, in fighting against the coming of the night. I believe in the honesty and destroying the stigma, in having the real conversations and saying the hard things.
But we buried you in the ground. We buried you, with a bracelet that doesn't do you any good now. We buried you, and I never told you the things I needed to tell you.
I should have told you that you matter very much. I should have told you that you weren't alone. I should have told you that I could see your problem, that you had so much worth fighting for, and that no one else could play your part. I should have told you that I knew how hard it was, and that the fight was worth it. I should have told you that I loved you, that I was scared for you. I should have told you so much and I'm so sorry that I didn't. I'm so sorry that I didn't do the brave thing for you.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so, so sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.
I have so much to say to you and no more time now to say the things that need saying. I cannot make sense of it, I cannot breathe around the loss of you. I have so many regrets, so much I wish I would have done. So much. I don't even know what to say to you. I tried, there at your viewing, standing at your coffin and gazing at what used to be you. I tried to say the things that needed saying, but the words wouldn't come. It was too late to say them anyway. Instead, I cried for you. I cried and in my head it was "no, no, no, no, NO!" Everything went through my mind then. That wasn't you and this isn't real, but it was. Horribly, terribly, irrevocably real. You're gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
It's too late to help you. Too late to say the words. Too late, too late, too late. The regrets don't matter, none of it matters now. The causes, the beliefs, the compassion, the rage and pity and passion and love--it all seems so empty without you here. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you.
We buried you in the ground. Before that, though, I stood by your body one last time and told you goodbye. I slipped the To Write Love On Her Arms bracelet off my wrist and under your fingers, and I said I was sorry. I gave you the bracelet that represents something so huge to me, that has become such a part of who I am. The story of a girl with an addiction. The story of a girl like you, only she is still here, and you are not. That girl with the addiction started a movement from nothing good. Her pain, her struggle, her need and rage and heartache landed on the pages of a blog and from that, To Write Love was born. She got help, and the organization has gone on to help so many people. So, so many. And me, too. To Write Love reached in and gave me hope in the darkest depths of my despair. I believe in the message, in fighting against the coming of the night. I believe in the honesty and destroying the stigma, in having the real conversations and saying the hard things.
But we buried you in the ground. We buried you, with a bracelet that doesn't do you any good now. We buried you, and I never told you the things I needed to tell you.
I should have told you that you matter very much. I should have told you that you weren't alone. I should have told you that I could see your problem, that you had so much worth fighting for, and that no one else could play your part. I should have told you that I knew how hard it was, and that the fight was worth it. I should have told you that I loved you, that I was scared for you. I should have told you so much and I'm so sorry that I didn't. I'm so sorry that I didn't do the brave thing for you.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so, so sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.
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