At first I don’t panic. I read the letter again and try to picture her playing a joke or doing something funny. A smile is on my face when I call the front desk, asking if there are any other letters or packages for me. They confirm this is it and ask if I need anything else. I hang up the phone and open the door, looking both ways down the hall, wondering if she’s going to jump out and say gotcha.

Again, nothing.

Closing the door, I sit back down and read the letter again. This time I believe that it’s real. I know nothing will change. Words don’t magically appear. In my head I know that, but I can’t admit it.

Did I do something wrong?

Did she find someone new?

Why is she doing this?

My world falls apart and I can’t sort out the feelings and raging emotions. I grit my teeth and nearly rip the letter apart. Setting it down on the table, I pace the hotel room, fuming with insane anger. My breathing is erratic and I can’t talk.

I imagine her writing the letter and the look of relief on her face. She wants this. She wants to leave me, and thinks I’ll let her and seventeen years go without a fight. Love is a powerful emotion. Our love is powerful, and we’ve been through too much to let it go.

“Ahh,” I scream. Lashing out I take my anger out on the couch and table, flipping them over. Glass smashes on the carpet and tears roll down my cheeks.

Turning, I see the letter again and pick it up. She wrote a fucking letter to break up with me. Stomping into the bedroom, I throw the pillows off the bed, ripping the comforter and sheets.

Red. All I see is red.

Consumed with anger, I stand in the room looking at the destruction caused by my rage. Sliding down the wall, I fall to the floor and try to calm down. Only there’s nothing calming me down. My heart is breaking. I’ve lost everything; my world, my heart and my soul.

Taking my cell phone out of my pocket, I call her. The call goes straight to voicemail.

Hi, you’ve reached . . .

I hang up and keep calling. After the eighth time, I decide to give her my own letter.

“I’m never letting you go. I’m the guy for you, Bayleigh Murphy, and that’ll never change. I will see you again.”

1. Conquer my fear of heights

2. Learn how to whistle

3. Sing and dance in the rain

4. Go to the batting cages

5. Go to a Sam Smith concert

6. Submit a painting to an art gallery

7. Learn how to hula hoop

8. Forgive him

I look at the last item on my bucket list. My eyes don’t move from the two words staring back at me. These two words hold much more meaning to me than they should. I spell out the words in my head, and mentally repeat them, hoping I can convince myself to do that one thing. The problem with forgiving him is, he doesn’t deserve it. If I do, it’ll be to find inner peace and move on. People say grudges weaken your heart and soul, clouding your mind with fear and debilitating your ability to be free. In some ways that’s true, but I bet you those people didn’t go through my hell. Even if I can forgive, I’ll never forget. That night needs to stay with me so it will never happen again.

Eventually, I’ll have to let go in order to move forward.

Eventually.

Then my mind goes to the possibility of forgiving him. I wonder if it’s possible to forgive someone who purposely stole a piece of you and left you for dead. Can someone truly let go of the hurt they’ve felt or are they doomed to live a life of fear?

I’m hoping to hear a voice telling me it’s okay to move on and let go, but there’s no such voice. All I have is my own voice laced with fear. No matter how hard I try there’s nothing else I can do to forget that night. I wish I could forget. I wish I could move on and never look back. If I could do that I’d still be happy and I’d still have everything I want.

I take a minute to set down my journal and put myself in another place. The place before my life changed. Gripping my journal a little harder, my eyes glaze over the last line, sending a small shiver down my body, to the tips of my toes. Forgive him is taunting me and I can’t wrap my head around the possibility. It’s hurting my heart to think that in order to get on with my life, I have to let what happened to me go. Not likely to occur, but I still like to think I can.

How can I move on and pretend I’m okay when in reality, I’m not?

Each time I think I’m getting better, something happens and I’m brought back to that night. My fears escalate and I shelter myself away from the world. I bury myself in books or painting. It’s my release, and what helps me stay calm. I tell myself he’s taken too much of my time and life and I don’t deserve to feel this way. I deserve to live and let go. I don’t want to live my life like this. It’s hard to move on when you’re shackled to the past.

The anchor bracelet around my wrist reminds me of the strength I know I have. But it’s hard to believe. We can tell ourselves everything will be okay and believe the world is going to be on our side, but sometimes, when we’re alone, all we have is the darkness. It’s too difficult to think everything will be okay. The shadows lurk around the room and hide in corners, ready to pop out and scare you.

The days and nights are hard and I struggle with getting through every day without breaking down. I used to love being outside, going to the beach, hanging out with friends and sitting by the water, tanning and drinking. You miss the little things when you stay inside and hide from the world. It’s not the big things you miss, like going on vacation or celebrating an event, no, it’s the little moments that we take for granted. Once they’re gone, you’re left wondering if those moments will come back.

And then life throws a little happiness your way. Sometimes, out of nowhere, the hope we need is right in front of us. Even when we push it away, that hope comes back and wants to help. Only you refuse it. That hope reminds you of the past and protects you from the self-loathing and self-inflicting pain. Hope reminds you of who you used to be and who you still can be.

As lucky as I am to have that, at the same time that’s not what I need.

I want to breathe again. I want someone to show me the meaning of being alive and the beauty of life. Do you know that feeling of being on a cloud and flying through the sky without a care in the world? I want that. There’s a protective bubble around me and I need someone to pop it. Right now, I’m not strong enough to do it. I’m all for girl power and being independent, but when your life has been taken from you and you’re left with bitch ass demons, a little push in that direction would help.

The dreams I have still live on within me. It’s not too late to get back on track, but honestly, I don’t know where to start. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt remotely like me. I’d rather stay in the comfort of my own room, painting, drawing, listening to music and lying in bed. I know it seems dull, but it’s safe.

I put the list down and lean my head against the headboard. Turning on the music app on my phone, I press shuffle. Music surrounds the quiet in my room, settling deep in my soul. It’s a sad song about letting go and moving on; not being good enough.

The song reminds me of when I lost hope. When things went downhill and I had to find the strength to be me again.

I’m trying, taking baby steps, but I’m not a patient person. I like to get things done at that moment and not wait. The waiting game and I have never been friends. Part of me yells to live and the other part yells at me to calm the fuck down so I can be safe. I don’t want to be a hostage to his hold anymore. I only have this life to live and it’s going on without me.