thoughts on why

So it seems like the more you think about things the worse they get. I'm kind of okay until I think about andrew, and then I'm semi-okay if I can get it out of my mind pretty fast, but if I sit there and think about it, or even let it hang out in my head for a while, the profound and otherworldly nature of the sadness gets to me. Like overwhelmingly so.

It's a little contradictory, because I have so many things of his, of ours, of our life together, that instigates memories - but I guess I've made it kind of a battle with myself. Andrew tried, tries, is trying, thinks he can - erase me. When you've got nothing left to burn, you know you've done a good job. etc. It burns me that he wants to fuck over all that time together in his head, and I guess because I'm on the losing end I have the opposite tendency - to hold on to it as it tries to slip through my fingers. But goddamn, three years is a seventh of my life, I can't erase that and be who I am. And I don't think I'd try. But I do have a drawer full of his shit that I can't open without crying, paintings on the wall, giftbags I haven't thrown out. I have a little silver box by my bed that has a little piece of plaid fabric cut from one of his boxers when we were trying to patch his jeans - the only thing I have left of his boxers, which sounds stupid, but I always had at least three or four pairs at my house. When I got to the house in indiana, everything was gone. Everything from my closet, which makes me think someone else cleaned it out for him. His mom, probably. They missed two or three shirts that were tangled up in my stuff, but everything else was gone. And in my closet, in a little pile to the back, was edward, the silver tiffany bracelet he bought me for our two year anniversary, his class ring, his twin - the matching little pokemon dinosaur thing that I have the mate to, to keep us close when we're apart - the engraved picture frame with his initials and "we will share a dream" on it, that I gave him for his high school graduation, two other framed pictures of us, his most recent love letters, my burned blue valentine cd mix he made for me, the phone cards from his wallet that i used when i called him from china, basically everything he had on him that was a part of me.

and my journals and the drawings, things I have that I created in order to remember what I thought I could always come back to. All gone, in the space of three minutes. My love, my life, my happiness. Everything I would have died for, I did, in that closet, keening over a pile of rubble of my past self, my existence.

I know it happens to everyone - well, a lot of people - and I know, well, okay, I mean, it is fucked up. And man, it is fucking brutal.