Originally posted to Medium on 10/18/2020

People don’t write songs about situations like mine. I’ve tried very hard to find comfort in records like “Don’t Start Now” by Dua Lipa or “Ignore Me” by Betty Who, but, at the end of the day, I am in a completely different world than these narrators.
“Don’t Start Now” and “Ignore Me” (along with countless other songs that follow this archetype) have a storyteller with a giant metaphorical finger up in the air. Their past lover hurt them deeply only to come crawling back to them, begging for attention and/or a new beginning.
What happens when the lover never comes back? I’ve yet to find a song that highlights that phenomena (probably because it isn’t nearly as uplifting or fun as being proven right by your ungrateful ex). And I’m not talking about sad songs; they are plenty of those. I’m talking about something that finds meaning in the silence, that finds strength in the rejection.
Three years ago in July, we were doing a show together and after rehearsal, we went to get dinner at Qdoba. It was pretty much perfect for me. I got to eat a guinea pig-sized burrito and I got to talk to you. The employees eventually asked us to leave because they were closing up, and so we stood out by my car and chatted for a while. But it got late and you had to go. We said our goodbyes. We drove away in separate cars. And I never saw you again. Every conversation we’ve had after that night at Qdoba has consisted of sparsely-sent text messages and a few emails. There’s obviously at lot of context that I’m leaving out given that this is an open letter on the internet and perhaps the context doesn’t matter so much as the aftermath you left in your wake.
We have a rift (I’ll use that term very generously) and then you left. Literally. You moved to a different town and told me to never speak to you again. Any attempts I have made to rectify the situation or at least get some kind of closure have been met with statements such as, “I hate you,” or “Do not ever contact me again.”
It’s no secret that I loved you, but, first and foremost, you were my friend. You were my best friend and you told me more than once that I was yours. We often talked about how we were kindred spirits or cut from a similar cloth. I felt comfort with you that I had never experienced with another person, and you told me so often that I was special. You were my kryptonite (if I’m allowed to be cliche.)
Make no mistake that my life is pretty fucking great now. I’ve grown a lot in the three years since you’ve seen me and probably for the better. I moved out of my parents’ place finally and live with my very close friend (who is one of the reasons why I’m here today; she was the first person I told when everything went down between you and me and she has helped me a lot to deal with the mess that you left). My writing is taking off (somewhat…more than I really ever thought it would), I have two beautiful nephews, I travelled to Ireland and Prague by myself, I learned to crochet, and I’m working hard on the social anxiety that’s kept me from really getting to know people all these years. 2020 has given me my fair share of shit, but I don’t want you to think that I am sitting around, crying into a wine glass every night because you didn’t love me back. (I did do that for a while.) But I am, in a lot of ways, still broken. I’m not the sweet girl that you left behind all those years ago; I’m a little tougher now, bitter, and cynical. You used to say one of the best things about me was that I was so bright and happy. I have lost some of that and I have spent countless hours in therapy trying to put my fears into words: you threw me away like a piece of trash; so I must be trash.
When you first told me to stay away from you, I assumed that this was just a knee-jerk reaction to our “rift” and given enough time, you’d contact me when you felt it was right. I gave you your space. I fought the panic in my head that said it was over for us and we’d never see each other again; you would call me, we would settle things, and life would go on. You have never really made that call, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still waiting on it (even if logic dictates that it’s never coming). My expectations for what you would say have slowly dwindled over the years. Where once I hoped for, “Deanna, I love you and I care deeply about you, but this is just insurmountable and we need to go our separate ways,” now I simply hope that you think of me and maybe feel a twinge of pity.
That’s the part that hurts the most: every day you wake up and have a chance to reach out to me and make things right but you choose not to. Every night you lie down to sleep, apparently at peace with where we are now and how I feel about you.
I made mistakes. You made mistakes. We hurt each other and we hurt other people, but once upon a time you told me things that made me feel like the king of the world. Once upon a time, your love made me so strong and so confident that I felt like I could do anything (again, with the cliches). If anyone who has read my work enjoys Summers in Prague or Dancing With Hamlet, they owe that enjoyment to you. You inspired me. You were my muse be it through character development or simply conversations that you and I shared. Once up on a time, you told me that I was important to you and you didn’t want to live without me. Times change and clearly you can live without me. I can deal with that, and I’m sure that I will eventually heal completely from this, but I’m also sure that this process would speed up a bit if I had some closure from you.
This letter is just one more scream into the void: me, standing at the precipice of your absence and hoping that you’ll hear some echo and call back.
I’ve yet to find a song that describes my situation. I suppose a sad one will have to do for now.
If someone said three years from now
You’d be long gone
I’d stand up and punch them out
’Cause they’re all wrong
I know better
’Cause you said forever
And ever
Who knew

Originally posted on Medium 9/25/2020

Dear Dad,
This Saturday is your and Mom’s anniversary, and I’m not sure why that’s hitting me harder than any of the other holidays. More than Father’s Day (which was terribly hard). More than your birthday.
I suppose the old cliche is true that death puts things into perspective. I never realized how big of an influence you had over my life until I couldn’t go to you anymore. We were never that close…not like you and Dana were. Dana was Daddy’s girl. Will continues to be Mama’s boy. And then there was me. I don’t think that we had a bad relationship…just an unfulfilling one. We had so little in common and we were both so polite. That’s where I got it from. You always talked so much about common decency and how uncommon it was. Whenever I’m faced with the choice of showing that decency, I tend to think of you.
The main thing that I miss are the opportunities. You were always a very quiet man…private even with your family. You could be silly and funny with us, but your true feelings always seemed to be buried. I know that Grandma wasn’t the easiest to live with and you must have had a lonely childhood…that’s the way it sounded, anyway. Grandpa wasn’t around and Uncle Denny was older and had moved out. It was just you and Grandma…and Grandma Strasse was a pill (to put it mildly). I never asked you the simplest of questions like, “Who was your best friend growing up?” or “How did you know that Mom was the one you wanted to marry?” The first question would have been easier for you. You probably would have been stumped by the second…not because you didn’t have an answer for it, but because you weren’t the kind to share too many secrets. If you’re anything like me, you were probably told often that your secrets were silly or stupid. You were told that your ideas were dumb so you buried them. I got my introversion from you, and that’s not a bad thing at all. There’s a power in knowing your own mind and having quiet time to let your mind wander. Most people want to fill their space up with so much noise that they don’t even know the sound of their own thoughts.
I started buying Christmas gifts. I always get an early start on it. I sent out the emails to Dana, Mom, Will, and Nick asking for lists and ideas. And it broke my heart that I didn’t have to send one to you. Your email address sits vacant now, unused and slowly filling up with emails that will never be read. What happens to a person’s email account once they die? Are there just these millions and millions of accounts floating around out there in the web? Do they eventually get deleted due to inactivity? Does the common widow know to delete her husband’s unused email account?
As much as my heart breaks, I know that my pain isn’t as deep as Mom’s, and that’s disheartening for a number of reasons. Obviously, it kills me to see Mom cry. I’ve never seen her like this before…even when Linley died, there was at least a small pocket of hope in her. I spent a good amount of time wondering if she might do something drastic. The other day, I went over to the house and found a sealed envelope in the desk drawer labeled, “Mom/Sue’s Funeral Plans”. I crept into the kitchen and opened it, fearing that it was some kind of letter that we weren’t supposed to find until the deed was done. But it was an old letter…from back when Mom had her hernia surgery. She wrote that in case anything bad happened, she wanted everyone to know her final wishes. It was dated several years back. She must have simply forgot that it was there.
I put the letter back and started to feel silly for thinking that Mom would ever do something like that, and then I felt silly for feeling silly for thinking that Mom would ever do something like that. Love and heartbreak can lead us down dark paths. So can mental illness. Mom didn’t want you to know, but she’s been taking depression medication for a while. It never occurred to me that you’d have any kind of issue with that. Did you have an issue with me taking medication? If you did, you never let on. Mom needs to see a therapist. She’s lost her way without you. Covid19 hasn’t helped. Right when she could really use connection and people filling the house with laughter and stories, that’s when we enter quarantine. She has Nicholas and Noah, but they can’t fix everything.
I’m also sad because I continue to deal with the same thoughts that have plagued me ever since you died: I’m not grieving enough. I’m not crying enough. I’m not sad enough. I’m going on with my life, and I feel as though everyone else in the family is at a standstill. There are times when I forget that you’re gone; I don’t live at home and I didn’t see you every day. You being out of the picture isn’t all that different. It’s only when I go home and see the empty basement or hear Rowdy crying nonstop that I’m forced to remember you’re gone.
That’s a new thing. Rowdy cries. He’s really barking, but I think it’s a kind of cry. He hates being outside (even more than when you were alive), and when he is forced into nature, he’ll just stand on the deck and bark incessantly. Mom and Will have tried putting a bark collar on him, but between his thick fur and the collar being rather cheap, it doesn’t do much good. You were his daddy, too, and, unlike us, he doesn’t understand why you’re gone. He just knows that he’s missing you.
When Linley died, I was devastated, but there was an aspect of hope to it. We all called her our little angel and talked as if we’d see her again. There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d see her once I, too, died. I often dreamed that in my last moments on Earth, she’d visit me and lead me up to Heaven. I would just know that it’s her. Beau would be there, too. When I think about Linley, I think of hope in a time of turmoil. I don’t know why your death is so different, but I’m having a huge crisis of faith right now.
In my brain, Linley definitely became and angel, but you? I don’t know. Linley was stillborn so I never really knew her; there was an aspect of distance there. But I knew you and you were ripped away from us. Once there was something and then it was gone. Once there was you and then you were gone. I remember having a conversation with a friend of mine right before Linley died where we were discussing the afterlife. He’s an agnostic and said that humans are machines and chemical reactions an when we die, the machines cease to work and we simply cease to exist. The idea scared me even then and then we lost Linley, and I outright dismissed even the possibility of it. My niece did not just cease to exist. She had to go somewhere. She had to be somewhere. She had to be living in Heaven and flying around on clouds and dancing with Jesus. She just had to be. But your death was different somehow. My friend’s idea fills my brain and I think that maybe you’re nowhere. You have simply ceased to exist, and that idea frightens me. I want to see you or get some kind of sign from you. The light in my car will randomly pop on; it’s done that since I bought it over a year ago, but now I tell myself that that’s you…just popping in to say hello. I had a bonfire a month back and a moth came and sat on my leg. He just sat there with me for a long while, and I wanted to believe that that was you…just popping in to say hello. To tell me that you’re okay. Where are you, Dad? You know the secret, and I don’t. I just want to know that you’re still there. I need some kind of sign.
Of course, if you have ceased to exist, then that means that Linley has ceased to exist. So has Grandma and Grandpa. So will I one day. A pastor would tell me that you’re too busy singing the praises of God to worry about little old me, but I really wish that you would. Maybe you are off on some great adventure. Maybe you’ve been reincarnated and get to start all over again. I hope you learn to fly a plane in this life; I know that that was a big dream of yours in this one. I hope you have a happier childhood than the one you had here.
I hope that you’re okay, Dad.
Love,
Deanna