Matthew, you would have been 28 today. I miss you like crazy. I regret not reaching out to you years ago, when I had my last chance. I will always regret that. It is my greatest regret.
I don’t know if you were still religious when you died. If you were, I hope you were able to meet God; I’m not sure anyone could have deserved that more than you. If not, I hope you have found peace or an adventure, whichever you wanted. I have a feeling, though, that all you wanted was an escape.
I’ve lived my life trying to make others feel the way you made me feel. I haven’t really succeeded, but I’m trying. You always made me want to try to be better. Still do, I guess. Sometimes I lose track of what I care about and why, and it feels like everything comes back to you. I do sometimes wonder whether I actually loved you or if I just wanted to be you, but I think both can be true.
I don’t think about you as often as I wish I did. I used to think about you all the time. But I always miss you; it feels like I’ve been searching for you ever since you were gone, unwilling to accept that I would never find you again. I don’t think I’ve ever processed your death, not really. Sometimes it feels like I never had a chance, but I think the truth is that I never gave myself the chance. I think some part of me has been too afraid to finally acknowledge that this world has lost one of its strongest, smartest, and kindest people. To be able to put up with me like you did, you’re a saint in my eyes. I think you were the first person to love me for all parts of myself, showing me that my edges are still valuable, still lovable.
It makes me feel better to think you’re out there looking after me. I never believed in God, but I believed in you. I shudder to think of the world we’d have if you had been here beside me; it would have been glorious. Ever since you’ve been gone, it feels like I’m running from you only to find you wherever I go. I guess that’s love: seeing you in the best and worst of everything, knowing I’d have it no other way.
I don’t know why I felt this needed to be on my blog; maybe I just wanted every piece of me to have you, somehow. Don’t worry, I’m also putting this with the others. I haven’t written to you in a long time, but I wanted to let you know that I’m finally processing. I am. It took me a while, but I’m ready now. I love you.
@secret-saiki @l0ve-f0rever @plzgivefood please join me to Cremate one that I loved long before meeting any of you. The One who kept me Warm in my Coldest moments. who never left my side even in the deepest darkness. It is time for my oldest friend to leave this plane of existence, and I invite you to assist me in saying goodbye.
@very-very-very-real-human Though we Have Not made great strides in our friendship thus far, I extend the invitation to you as well.
@thecorrectopinion @myeyesarebiggerthanmybladder Please Come Too.
The Funeral will take place in the field behind my house. I will DM you the precise location. I Expect you all to be there.
Located in the top of the closet, locked with the same padlocks that had been placed on it all those years ago, tightly sealed away from the earth's surface. What it is, I have no clue. Dad never let me look, and now that he is gone. I never truly understood the meaning behind anything he did. Dad was strange before he went away. I remember how he became more…? Messy? Did I do something wrong? It always sorta scared me, how weird dad was at times, I still loved him though.
Finally, after some help (thanks mom), I was able to open that old trunk, which I am not sure if I'm supposed to snoop through dads stuff… but oh well. A book, a journal from like a bazillion years ago, a few papers with drawings, a toy plane, a couple old jacks (that's what mom called them), and a lighter.
I looked through the journal. Its weird, I made mom take it away. It was just so weird. Dad wrote a lot I guess.
“Brother, I hope you forgive me for what I have done, with my daughter on the way; I have been thinking of you more, mourning you though I shouldn’t be allowed to, I am the reason you are gone. I think I might name her after Lizzy, Is that weird, should I be allowed to. I, honestly, have been looking for whatever reason to keep you both close, though I am certain you would all hate me now… for what I have done, for the hurt I have caused, for the suffering I put you both through. I (something I couldn’t read because of some red stuff) don’t know what I will do.”
Some of the pages where hard to read because the journal was so old, wrinkled and whatnot, but it was dad none-the-less.
“My daughter, I wish for you to forgive me, for whatever I might do to you and mom; for whatever I will get lost and tangled in, I pray it never touches you nor harms you. I pray that you-”
I wish I could read more of this, he is talking about me.
“I never start my entries with a ‘Dear diary,’ but I feel the need today… so, Dear diary… I think I have lost it, I found him. I can change things, everything, make the world safer for my family… but should I just, let it go? It’s been so many years, but. If he has been out for so long, what's to say he won’t stop hurting others? I part of me wants to forgive him, beg him for his love as I had all those years ago after (something dad scratched out) died. I wanted his love, the same he gave to Lizzy and-.
I know better, he needs to be put to an end, I know Mr.Emily has mentioned it a time or two…mostly in the spam letters he keeps sending to the house despite me telling him not to. I don’t want to be involved in his revenge fantasies, but… after everything he put me through, I feel the need to act. It’s impulsive… much like he was.”
I guess Dad went away for a bit, maybe a business trip? I know around the time he started writing these things, he was working at those pizza places, right?
“I took it, I took his proposal. Hopefully all is well…”
The next couple of pages were just doodles of some clown things, a bear thing, a fox thing, and a weird ballerina thing. I think I like the clown thing the best. The next couple of pages were so weird though.
“Elizabeth, my sweet daughter, I hope that you never find this…I hope your mom burns it like I told her too… and that any part of me in your life is left behind in those very ashes. I do not have much time left, but a part of me is filled with such immense regret for not being a better father, better for yourself and Cass alike… I don’t want you to follow the same path as me, as your grandfather, you deserve something so much better than what my sick-self could’ve done for you. You deserve something normal, with a happy mom and dad. I don’t want you to regret life the same way I have. I don’t want you to live angrily, or feel upset at the thought of me the same way I am towards your grandfather.
Please don’t live to fast, don’t live out of anger or spite, troubles come but they do inevitably pass…much like that one song Dad actually liked that I can’t remember right now. Be someone simple, get an education, listen to mom. I can’t spend all that much time writing, it’s starting to hurt but-”
He paused, maybe for some water, or to rub his wrist like he always did?
“Sweetheart, be someone you are proud of, fight to be the person you want to be. I wasted so much time trying to be someone your grandfather wanted, instead of being who I wanted to be. I spent a lot of time trying to please and be like him; I will always love you regardless of who you end up being. Don’t let all of the nasty things in life control you, please. Things eventually get better, and you learn, don’t be so obsessed with perfection as I once was. I made a lot of mistakes, but just know that you are sincerely loved and forgiven for all the things you might do wrong, though I doubt you will do anything nearly as evil as I did. I love you, Liz, I love you with all my heart. My only regret is that I can tell you that, I can’t hug you. I can’t tuck you in and scare off the monsters as I had. I can’t check on you when I get home at dawn and wake you up for school. I can’t make you breakfast, even if I were tired as all hell. I can’t help mom get you ready, dress you, and brush your hair into that lopsided pony-tail you would complain about. I always tried to make it as good as your mom’s. I regret not taking the time to learn to braid like you wanted. I can’t feel the smoothness of your cheeks beneath my fingers when you’re feverish, and kiss your forehead before you get on the bus. I can’t pay for your school pictures, watch your recitals, or help with your homework. I wonder if you will learn to ride the bike soon, like you wanted, it is okay if you don’t, it will come eventually. I can’t soothe you in your failures or celebrate your successes. I can’t be there when you get your first boyfriend, heartbreak, kiss, or graduate. I hope all of those things go smoothly. I always hated seeing you in pain or hurting. I can’t see you off to university, or if you go straight to work. I can’t walk you down the aisle as I wanted, though it pained me to picture you in someone else's arms. This must be how Henry felt.
I remember the day you were born, holding your tiny self, your dark hair and light eyes like mine. For the very first time, I loved the features I got from him, because they were on your face. Something so sweet and innocent. You were a blessing, despite never being religious; I do hold regrets there. You changed my life, and I was too selfish to acknowledge it. You grasped my finger with your tiny hand, and I felt as if life was better in that moment. You were everything I always wanted, bundled into pink and white blankets. You, I helped create you. I helped create something so beautiful. I never thought I would make it to see it. It is true that having a baby changes you. Your mom was and still is beautiful. She fought for you ten times harder than I did. I hope that you treat her well. I can’t hug or kiss her anymore. Please do that for me, Sweetheart. Your mom loves you so much, I know she will hurt all the same. She was (until you) the light in my life, she fought to make me someone better, and I failed her. It hurts all the more knowing that I inevitably failed you all. I hope that you will forgive me. I love you so much, please never forget it. Me.
Your mom was incredibly correct in saying time passes so quickly. I would always brush her off. But in these final moments, it’s like I am watching some sick montage. Watching you from the moment you were born, watching you grow, smile. And I regret not being better, not cherishing every last moment I had with you, those I easily brushed off. I should’ve played dolls more, painted your nails more, and drank your secret tea in all those tea parties. I was selfish, and I still am now. I love you.”
Hihi, I know there are a BUNCH of grammatical errors, it IS intentional! I posted earlier about a Michael headcannon, him being a father in my own personal AU. Here is the obvious follow-up! This is a bit written with some personal things in mind. I hope it resonates with those who have gone through similar things. You are all so sincerely loved.
This is a personal diary entry written by Michael's daughter (7-12-year-old) shortly after his death, as she explores a few pages of his personal journal that he dedicated to her, coming to an understanding of her own terms with his death (something I struggled with after the passing of a loved one)
I am likely to take this down and rewrite it here soon! but figured I would toss it out there.
Why didn't anyone tell me that you can smell sickness?
I can't be near my Mom because the smell of illness is so strong and it's causing me to panic over and over, yet I'm so scared of being far, because what if I go to bed and she's gone? Without me saying goodbye?
I think I'm going through bereavement? I can't eat, sleep or calm myself down. The littlest thing keeps pushing me over the edge.
I can feel my empty stomach and the brain fog from lack of sleep, but why should I be able to eat and sleep when my Mom can't? I nearly puked every time I tried anyways.
I can't afford therapy after all this is over, my family can't even afford even the simplest funeral. I suggested a GoFundMe, but I'm not sure if that would even work?
God don't let my Grandma bury her daughter in a nameless grave.
When he reassured her that it was fine, she slowly was able to relax.
In all honesty it wasn't just his naturally angry look that put her on edge. It was the words he'd said during his scolding.
'If I get the impression that you aren't taking your responsibilities seriously I will take matters into my own hands...'
It was putting her on edge. Because if he said that when she already had been throwing herself into her responsibilities, then what more did he expect from her? If he caught her playing with other kids instead of doing missions, would that qualify as her not taking her responsibilities seriously? If she was just sitting there with this box doing nothing, would he get upset with her?
It was just confusing and stressful from her perspective because that day she had been going through her responsibilities as a hero, and all it took was her talking to a boy for a moment for him to seemingly forget all that.
And she was still left wondering what exactly he meant by taking matters into his own hands.
Sometimes with Father it felt like he was playing a strange game with you. A game he didn't bother to explain the rules or punishments that came from breaking them.
But he reassured her that he wasn't mad...so she was safe. For now.
"...He does have a nice pipe. And nice hair." She joined in on the conversation with a small smile.
It wasn't clear to many, but she was doing that thing again. Talking about her dad as if he was still alive. She didn't say he did have a nice pipe, she said he does. As if he was just missing like her mother was.
Because admitting the truth was too hard to do.
"He loves cats! Especially fluffy ones, thats why my kitten was fluffy!" She sniffled and wiped at the tears running down her cheeks.
"H-He is a gentleman....I wonder if he would have loved to talk about pipes with you. Maybe you could have been...I wonder if he'd want to be your friend."
Though deep down she knew the answer. Laurence Vanderbilt was a kind man who wanted to see the best in everyone too, but he had his limits. And she suspected that if he had been here he would have had enough of Father's temper ages ago, no matter how much he might have wanted to help the man,
But for a moment she could pretend that her dad would have been friends with her father figure.
At the mention of the pipe, her eyes grew sad once more.
"Me too...I really want his pipe. H-He...I just n-need it."
Without a grave to visit, that pipe and these photos were ll she had left of him.
She took a deep breath in, then out. In...out...
"I-It just appeared at the base doorstep. No note, and no one saw who dropped it off." She answered. So much for having a mail carrier who could trace it back to the sender.
But then at the bottom of the box was a different Polaroid. This one was definitely newer. It showed a small manor in ruins with plants and fusion matter running rampant. On the back written in red were the words,
You can go home, Adeline
Love, Mom
Besides it was a map leading to the manor depicted. Adeline's eyes went wide as she pulled it out, hastily examining the photo then the map.
"This...t-thats my house. And...m-mom? Mom? My mom is okay? She's here?"
She had to follow the map. She had to.
Both for the pipe, and for the hope of seeing her mother again.
Because it's coming to that day again I have something to say ahead of time this year
Tw for mention of death, terminal illness (specifically cancer) and mourning
One of the hardest parts of grieving for me is the fact that cancer reaches everywhere. It appears in people out of nowhere and especially at this time of year it's talked about a lot.
And that's great, y'know? I love that awareness is taken seriously, I love that people are searching for a cure but this is where it makes my grief so hard.
I am generally pretty rational, and logically speaking I know research can't be rushed and I know they're doing their best and I have so much respect for that. But the emotional part of me is always so angry. Obviously sad too but the emotional part of my brain screams, because it feels so fucking unfair that this progress came too late for him and it's not fair that he had to die. He didn't deserve to suffer so much and the onlyercy in this fucked up situation is that he's free from suffering now.
In part my anger comes from the absolute failure of the consultants during his treatment and the unnecessary extra pain they caused him. I hope they had/have their medical licences revoked.
Of course it also comes from the fact that he was a child. He was 16. I have outlived him and that's not fair, to always have my older brother in my head as a 16 year old boy. He should be cooking and trying all kinds of recipes right now but he's not. Because he's dead.
Fuck cancer
But I'm doing better these last few years, because I don't feel as alone anymore, I have friends who care enough to check up on me and it feels easier to remember him without shutting down
