How do I explain this?

When I was twenty, when she was twenty (three days after her birthday, mind you) Ira died. If you wanted I could tell you the day, May 5th, tell you how there was a phone call and I still remember how beautiful it was outside, the sun was shining and Julie and I were sitting out in the driveway, completely full of life, completely at peace. We were waiting for the boys to come home, we were going to the movies.

A phone call. One. She. Stopped. Said, someone just told me Ira died. Someone just told me they found her beside a river. Someone said she was murdered.

This is not to say your grief was any less, but this isn't the death of a grandparent, this isn't the death of your elder. Do you get that? I know how much it hurts to lose a grandparent, I know, it's real. But there is a certain readiness there, we know old people die. We understand that, even if we don't accept it.

Twenty. She was a baby. I am a baby.

It's that I'm tired of people wanting to kill themselves, not because I don't understand what it means to hurt, but because I know how much it hurts. Because I too have wanted to die, but no one wants to be murdered.

I want to say I'm sorry life is hard but it gets better and it gets worse. I want to tell my sixteen year old brother that I understand what it means to be sixteen, I've been there, and that he won't want to hear it, and he won't even understand it or listen but this: being sixteen means not understanding yourself and thinking instead that it's the whole world that doesn't understand. I want to tell you, you bleeding heart poets, you children of words - breathe, learn to love yourselves but don't be vain. To keep writing but not for the fame or the people but for yourself.

I don't want to lecture, I just get so scared. I want to protect everyone and I can't even protect myself.

Look, after Ira, everything changed. Everything.

I used to be Amanda. I used to listen to Counting Crows and Ben Folds and go to the beach in short skirts and spaghetti straps to soak up sun. I used to eat brownies, batter first. I used to think I was invincible.

I don't know if you know this, but before Ira, I was in love. For three years I was in love and we should have one day married. I wouldn't have been complete without him always in my life.

But, she died, and maybe Amanda died. And we died.

And, Julie. We died. She was my best friend since we were eleven and we couldn't cope. We never spent a moment without each other and after Ira we couldn't stand to be in the same room together. I was told we handled her death as a couple does the loss of a child. And maybe it's why I always write about losing children, and why people don't believe me when I say I've never lost a child but can write it like I have. We couldn't handle it, she just wanted someone to talk to, wanted to go to a room full people and be filled up by them, and I wanted to hide in a room in quiet.

We both made mistakes. We pushed each other away and pulled random strangers into our lives. I'm not proud of it. For a good half of a year I only felt whole, only felt loved if some guy was running his hands along my hips. It was the only time I didn't feel the pain. And I drank. She drank. We drank enough to fill swimming pools and then we kept drinking. I'm not proud of this, but I'm not a liar either. I accept who I was even if I don't know who that was, even if I don't like her. I'm not her now.

And I'm not Amanda. I don't know who I am now. I need a new name, maybe Cora or Ava or anything else. I am not who I used to be, and so I can tell you, yes, I'm really in love now. No, I don't think I should be with my ex. Because I shouldn't. Too much has changed I don't even remember how I used to think or act or live.

I'm not unhappy now. You might not believe it. Yes, I get sad. Yes, I am overly introspective and observant and every little thing has meaning to me now. But I'm not unhappy. I'm more aware of myself now than I've ever been. I'm cautious. I look before I leap, I never did that before. I'm not saying I'm great. Some nights I'll still drink myself into a stupor, some nights I won't think things through, act irrationally. But it's a lot less common. I'm trying to get things straight, and I'm really working on myself.

And I'm in love. I am so insanely in love it scares me. And he lives so far away but he's moving here soon and you don't even know how much that thought makes me geek out little a little school girl. I've never wanted anyone as much as I do him. And he makes me smile, he makes me laugh, he calls me at 4 a.m. to tell me he loves me and I don't even mind being woken.

I love him but I'm scared.

His ex died in a car crash two nights ago. And I'm terrified for him. Terrified it will kill him like it killed me. It's hard because we're long distance at the moment, and so he seemed very sad and now he seems like nothing is wrong. And it's just a front, I imagine it's his way of dealing or -

Maybe I'm looking into connections wrong, maybe I think that the people who effect you at any moment in your life are important. But if my ex died it would tear me to bits. I am grateful for every person who has ever touched my life, in a good or a bad way, because they shaped me. And my ex shaped so much of me.

What I'm saying is, I'm scared. No, I am terrified. I just want to hold him and I want to do everything right this time that I did wrong between Julie and I, between my ex and I. I want to keep him from the black hole. I don't even know if that's possible, maybe that's selfishness talking. But I don't want him to hurt, I want to swallow his pain, make it mine. He's had so much bad happen, I want to show him there's good.

I want to be good because I know I can be. Because Ira was good. And because people are good, when they let themselves believe it.

I want to believe it, for him. For you. For me.

-

I'm sorry this is long. I didn't write this to get sympathy, I don't think because one bad thing has happened to me that my life is bad. I know a lot of people whose lives have been ten times worse. I don't need apologies or people to worry. The whole original purpose of writing this was to explain that I used to have a reason to write. I used to be able to pick up a pen and I was so filled with anger or sadness or something that it couldn't help but spill out onto the page. But now, other than being so insanely in love I feel like I'll explode, I don't have that intense emotion pouring out. I'm growing older. I've accepted the frailty in human beings. I've accepted Ira's death. Accepted that nothing is laid out, that's life. And I'm almost at peace. I really am. The people I have in my life are the people I want in my life, I try and stay away from negative energy now. And maybe I can only write when I'm filled with negative energy, or maybe I just need to learn to write on a different level than what I'm used to. Either way, I'm sorry I'm not here, I'm sorry I don't read or write or comment on your lovely works. But I do care, if I didn't I would just delete the 500-some deviations in my inbox and be done with it. I care though. I'll be back to read, and maybe one day I'll get on a writing streak again. Remember how it feels to have words just pour from my fingers with ease. Until then, be good, smile, breathe, be happy.