Diary

I honestly don't know what's worse; letting go or holding on for so long. I let go a few months after you left; letting go with the fact we could still manage to be together. And holding on to the fact that we could make it work.

I'm still fighting myself on that.

I don't know how to feel anymore. It's all really touch and go. It's all a messed up blur. It's as if my brain is crying. As if someone turned on simulated rain and my entire world is foggy.

My entire world is like this because I got mail today. Big, fat, manila envelopes. Envelopes that hold the future of us in them. Well...they're not spread out on my kitchen table. I haven't gotten to touching them and reading exactly what they have to say; other than it's over.

If I sign, it's over and I will no longer be a "Way" on paper. I'll be back to Valleri Santos. Poor Valleri.

Stupid, stupid Valleri.

Idiotic Valleri.

Roxy wanted to know what they were, and I couldn't tell her. As I told you before, I didn't want her to know what a divorce is. I never wanted her to experience this...never. Now, as it turns out, she will. She'll know what it's like without her parents being together.

LuLu will never experience a whole family. She'll never know what it's like for us to be together. It hurts. It stings, and I hope you can feel it. I hope you're choking on it.

So, I'll just stand over these papers, with pen in hand, and attempt to sign my name. To pretend it isn't happening, when it is. It hurts.

After I mail them out, I toss this little diary in with it. I hope you get it...maybe you're reading it now. Maybe you see how much I hurt. Maybe you feel sorry for me and are reaching for the phone to really apologize. To beg for my forgiveness and say you'll do anything for me to forgive you.

But, we all know that's all fantasy. We know it'll never happen. It isn't in your nature to apologize so quickly. I think you lack empathy. I think you hate me now...or maybe you don't.

So, I guess I can tell you that I still care about you. I still love you. I still have some hope for you, even though it's probably a waste of brain cells. It's a waste to still care, but I fucking do.

I fucking care and I wish I didn't. I want to take a gun to these feelings and load off. I want these feelings to close off and disappear.

God, I'm rambling. I'm acting and writing stupidly. Why am I still doing this? We talked, we let our feelings out; or at least I did, and it hasn't brought us anywhere but to the big fat D Word. Or maybe I could tear these papers up and pretend that it isn't happening.

What's better? You tell me. The suspense is killing me.