Reflection from May 29th, 2011 @ Age 29
RE: GUILT — FEELING FEELINGS I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FEELING.
I look at this Facebook website, “Friends of David Joseph Magoon”, and I see pictures of the girl that he dated freshman year in college. The blonde from California that too, attended UVA. The blonde from California who was able to love him. The blonde from California, who made him forget about me. But is that so?
I sat here today and scanned through pictures she posted online, of her and him, together, loving one another. And I called her a bitch and a whore, and fat, and stupid and other things as well—ohhh the shame. I’m sure she’s a perfectly decent human being, most likely. I don’t even know her. I’m angry at her and I don’t even know her. I remember her though. Through words that broke my heart, I remember her. Dave’s roommate freshman year told me that Dave put my photos up on his dorm room wall when he moved in. He thought of me. But I don’t know that it lasted long. By fall break 1999 he had met “Tiffany”, the blonde from California. And from their pictures he was happy, even though pictures can tell a million stories—none of which may be true.
In any case, he belonged to her and no longer I, if he ever belonged to me in the first place. And yet…I…I cannot help but believe that he loved me still. “Tiffany” and he eventually broke up, so it’s not like that was meant to be. And I dated Crosby in college and that was probably the most horrible relationship of my life, so much wasted time. So it’s not like his relationship with her necessarily meant anything at all, or at least, if it did—perhaps still not what ours meant to him.
I don’t even know why I think about these things. Why do I even care? Why do I have to believe that he loved me most? Why does he matter so much to me?
I don’t know. I just don’t know; but the fact of the matter is, that I do care, very much so, sometimes desperately and perhaps incongruently, if that makes sense. Sometimes, a bit too much, or perhaps entirely too much. It’s unfair, to Cooper first and foremost, and I hate that I feel these feelings. I hate that I write such things, I hate that it matters. I hate that if Cooper read this, it would probably hurt him. I hate these things. And what does this mean? Should I not write about it? Should I hide my feelings? Should I deny myself, myself? What do I do about this? I just don’t know…
All I know is that I care, more than I ought to. More than I can explain in words to any other human being, even my best of friends, even my own mother for god’s sake. More than it even makes sense. It doesn’t even make sense, and yet I feel it. But I tell you what, my mother thought it was meant to be. She used to tell me, which I completely forgot and only recently remembered from reading old journals; that we were meant to end up together. And that we would end up together. What a cruel thing. And yet, how could she have known? Except she knew that I loved him more than…more than many things. And she insisted, even after we broke up, that we would end up together. She believed he loved me. She knows these things. I just don’t understand. And yet I want to believe.
If you ask me, he loved me with all of his heart, until the day he died, and the reason he hurt me the way he did was because he was immature in response to the unbelievable levels of immaturity I suffered from as well. The fact of the matter is, I hurt him. I subjected him to embarrassment that he did not deserve. Or maybe he did, I don’t know. Maybe it made him a better person, I don’t know. Maybe experiencing one frustration in his life was good for him. How cruel, I don’t even know what he had been through. How dare I say that?
I believe, though, that he hurt me because I hurt him. I loved him but I was immature and suffered from social anxiety to a painful degree and I could not handle the situation. I loved him on the inside, but I could not show it on the outside. I could not show it. Not yet. And that hurt him.
So he hurt me.
I deserved it; I really believe that I did. I just wish, so fiercely, that I would have known better. That I could have been better. And here I am, wishing I could be better. Sometimes I don’t know what to think.
In any case, I’m tiring of this talk. I will end it. But suffice it to say, I believe he loved me above them all. I believe he was waiting for me, and I believe that he knew that it would destroy me. We could not live together, and we could not have lived apart. Being together would have destroyed me, but watching him grow old with someone else would have as well. It was not meant to be, and yet it was also not meant to not be. What else can I say? It makes no sense. I, so often, make no sense. I don’t even know what more to say.