I miss you. Wait, more specifically, I miss the old you. I have to be perfectly honest, because that's what I do here, and say that I don't miss the "you" from this past two years. I don't even know that man. You wouldn't know him either. He was depressed and sad and confused and sick and I spoke to him like a child, because that's all I knew to do. I can't feel guilty about that because I did my best. I tried really, REALLY hard. I failed more often than not, but sometimes I reared up and advocated for you like nobody's business. That's what they call it when you complain on somebody's behalf - advocating. I had to do that more often than I'd like. I'm so sorry about that. But I can't fix that right now.
But back to the missing. I miss the old you. I miss the weird conversations we would have about stuff - TV, music, pop culture. I miss our sarcastic and cynical conversations about people on TV - people you hated and why you hated them. I missed arguing with you about TV shows. Gosh, we talked about TV a lot. I miss asking about your routine every day - the weirdness of the things you did with odd uniformity.
Mostly, I miss sharing things with you. Still today, when I do something new or meet someone unusual or see a movie, my first thought is: "I can't wait to tell Dad." And then I feel a little sad, because I can't do that anymore.
My kids miss you. They miss the weird, dark and twisted side of you, which is what they liked best. They miss having funny conversations with you or asking you to draw illustrations for album covers.
I guess what I'm saying is that you did a good job because there's a void in our hearts where you used to be. So, it's a good thing - evidence of a life well-lived if those left behind have an emptiness inside.
I have a lot of questions about what you're doing right now. That's for another time - a faith crisis put on hold. I hope your feet are up, you're enjoying a scotch on the rocks, some Wheat Thins and a big, fat book. You earned it.
Love you,
Karen
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