On 21 April 2024, that man was actually, finally gone. To say I was surprised would be a lie, as he had been critically ill and dying for quite some time. To say I was sad would be another, as I felt nothing. Even after giving myself time to think about it, in case I was unconsciously refusing to acknowledge my feelings or somehow trapped in a web of pretension I’d unknowingly weaved, grief was still absent and there was no sense of loss. His death was just factual, not even a sizzle much less a bang, merely a fizzle.
It made me realise that I have let go, and that I’ve completely done so for a very long time. Despite the promises given, broken, and forgotten, abandonment mixed with betrayal with a side of childhood trauma, they only matter if I let them and their only power what I give them. What I can say with honesty and certainty is that I don’t carry anger with me, any resentment has been analysed, processed, and duly dismissed. Even when he was still there, he no longer had consequence, so what importance could it had when he was not?
As much as I occasionally would like to believe otherwise, my little life is neither a book nor a movie. There’s none of that romanticised sense of relief, that famed feeling of a weight suddenly being lifted. I am not freed because I simply have always been all along, and when something’s been gone and never found, there’s no losing it a second time around.
psychobabbles 