I don’t really know how to express how angry and hurt and disappointed I am that I have to think about you in the past tense. There won’t be any more of anything with you. And that is just the most defeating and depressing part of dealing with your death. That you CHOSE this for us, this pain and helplessness. I can’t imagine how bad things must have been, to get to this point, you KNEW that you had people that loved you. And if you didn’t, well, that’s not our fault. I expressed it in bucket fulls each time I saw you, and I know that your life was filled with people that did the same.
I think I’ve been dwelling on this recently because one of your passions in life was running, and I’m seriously nervous about adding this to an already full plate. Your obsession with being thin was over the top, but I know it was part of whatever was broken. I trust that I won’t go to those extremes, it’s just not me, but to have to think about you every time I put on my running shoes makes me sad. I wish I could Skype you and tell you I was starting to prep for my first 5K in August, and I vividly imagine the delight and excitement you’d express in that accent that was uniquely yours. You’d take the idea and run with it (haha) and send me meal plans, all in metric weights, and a schedule to follow. I’d get emails with reminders and inspirational quotes, so over the top, but meant lovingly and with the best intentions. You didn’t do anything halfway, that’s for sure. I miss you. And I’m so mad at you. But I miss you just the same.