I think that, in a way, this emotional suicide was necessary. The last thing I wrote about you revolved around your death and me actually killing myself. It was so dark, so evil, so self destructive. I needed to kill us both in order to being able to breathe again after more than two years of a very slow, consistent massacre.

I can breathe now. I look at my new tattoo and I can breathe. I still hope, everyday, that this progression is real and not just a weird form of self protection. That I’m not just too scared to admit how much I still miss you…but you know, maybe everything is going to be just fine after all. Maybe I can go on without enduring your shoveling and willfully throwing me down, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not gonna miss that about you…