It has been two years, one month, 22 days, and 16 hours since I last saw you, and I have a gun up to my head. And even though it is my own finger on the trigger, I am just as vulnerable as if the appendage belonged to someone else. See, the thing is, you did not realize how much you meant to the world- and to me- when you found yourself in much the same position as I am now. And that is why I had to bury you, my love, under that old tree that you thought was beautiful but I thought was a mess. Though, when they moved to cut it down, I stood right there beside you in front of those **** chainsaws and I never moved in inch except to hold your hand. I will never forget the way you looked at me then. The next time I saw that look was when we were both standing there at the altar, you covered in blue and green sundress (because wedding dresses were too stuffy), and I in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt you had picked out for me two days before. I remember waking up that night to you studying me. I asked you what you were doing, to which you replied, “I want to write about you”. I remember thinking that it was not humanly possible to love you any more than I did right then. A thought that would later be proved wrong repeatedly as the years passed.
And then, in the fall of 1997, you were diagnosed with a cocktail of manic depressive disorder and multiple sclerosis. I was terrified, to be perfectly honest. But I tried my damndest to keep you as happy and comfortable as I could make you. I began going to church. I wished on every star. We even sold our city house in favor of a simple country lifestyle to get away from the city air and stress of it all. And yet still your condition worsened. I didn’t get much work done anymore, but I was much happier taking care of you than I was working for that ******* company.
And then you left me that note. That ******* NOTE telling me that you were sorry and that you had had spoiled my life. Telling me that I was better off without you. Telling me that you were lifting the burden off my shoulders and that it was the best thing you could do for me.
       They found your body three days later on the edge of the river. You had put stones in your pockets, my love. But what I could never make you understand is that you were not my burden. You were my rope tethering me to the ground when I was in danger of floating off. You were the ship that carried me to new and exotic places when I lost my inspiration. You were the tools with which I painted a beautiful life, and a beautiful future up to this point. So love, when you took that final walk into the water thinking that you were doing me a favor, you were wrong. And that is why I am sitting here, on this ******* bed that once belonged to us, threatening myself for about the millionth ******* time since your passing. But this time, I think I might be ser---