The Container
Date: Wednesday, January 1, 2025
Mood: Suffocating
Music: Everybody’s Changing by Keane
Dear Richard,
Dr. Evans told me to write a letter to say goodbye.
She sat in her beige armchair, clicking her pen, and said, "Taylor, you are haunting yourself. You are married to a wonderful man. You have a beautiful life in California. But you are walking around with a corpse on your back. You need to bury him."
She told me to write it all down—the guilt, the cheating, the regret—and then burn it. A ritual. A release.
I tried. I really did. I sat at my desk for three hours with a lighter in my hand.
But I couldn't do it.
Because if I burn the letter, I burn the proof. If I let you go, then I have to admit that the last fifteen years of my internal life have been a delusion. I have to admit that I’m not a tragic romantic figure waiting for his soulmate; I’m just a man who made a terrible mistake and has to live with it.
I realized tonight that I don't want to say goodbye. That’s the sickness, isn't it? I am addicted to the grief. It’s the only thing I have left of you.
So, I’m not burning this. I’m doing the opposite. I’m building a container for you.
I created this blog because my head is full. It is overflowing with memories of you—the smell of your coffee, the way you tapped your pen when you studied, the look on your face when I broke your heart. I can't talk to Levi about this. I can't talk to my kids.
I need a place to put the overflow. I need a place where I can whisper your name without blowing up my marriage.
This isn't a goodbye, Richard. It’s a preservation order. I’m putting you here, in the digital ether, so I can try to survive my real life without drowning in the past.
I’m sorry I’m still holding on. But I don't know how to let go without losing myself.
Love always,
Taylor