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But I have to write this in the belief that you are reading. And so you’ll see the next words I write.
I’M SORRY.
I’ll give you a moment to absorb that. I’ve never said it before so it would be shock.
I’m sorry, Georgie, for all the ways we went wrong. All the ways that weren’t my fault and then all the ways that were.
I went back to counselling. I should never have stopped. And this time I’m learning that a traumatic brain injury isn’t an excuse to be bad tempered and just a total shite to the person who cared the most for me.
In the beginning, of course, I had plausible deniability for my utter berkdom. I just wasn’t the same anymore and I had no control over the anger I felt. I had no control over a lot of things and what I lacked in good sense I made up for in bad temper.
But all that time, through the coma, learning to walk again, the confusion and moodiness, the inability to work or even stay awake long enough to do anything interesting other than carp at the world, you stuck with me.
You loved me, Georgie, when I was at my most unlovable.
And berk that I was I blamed you for all of it. After all you blamed you for Jeffrey, for me not being me anymore, so piling on didn’t feel like a big deal.
But it was a big deal.
I got my legs back and there’s worse than a limp. I got my ability to think clearly back, most of the time, the headaches I can handle with meds, the fatigue I’ll have to live with. I even like what I do for work. I might not sing or write music but being a music librarian is almost as good without the sex, drugs and, well, you know.
But the thing is I never got past blaming you, so I made your life miserable.
And that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is—I got off on it.
I didn’t understand that till now.
You took me on for better or worse and I only ever served you worse and you were too good to quit on me until I quit on you. And seriously, what kind of a pillock has an affair and waves it in his wife’s face like I did, instead of talking things out sensibly.
Strike me dead, Georgie. I’m sorry.
I don’t mean I’m sorry I ended up with brain damage. I am sorry about that. There is no reconciling it, only acceptance, and I can’t pretend I don’t still struggle with it. Every single day. In my dreams I’m still a fellow who never gets headaches, never gets confused or angry for no good reason, who is sure on his feet and has enough energy to get through the average day without a nanna nap.
And who was never an arsehole to you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t separate out my feelings and put them in the appropriate places. Jeffrey did this to me, not your friendship with him. Nothing you did made Jeff the violent, dangerous idiot he was. I’m sorry I gave up counselling. I should never have done that. What a dickhead I was.
I’m sorry I made you feel like a nurse, like the hired help. No, worse, like the house slave. I made your own home a war zone between me and my wonky brain and my thwarted ambitions. See, arsehole.
Before it all we were so good. I know that’s not a false memory. I loved you so much and we were good together. And after I needed you so much. But we were too young to know what we were up against and you were too good to walk away. And I was too messed up to let you do it easily.
We should’ve listened to my parents. Your dad would’ve been so disappointed in me. If he was still alive and sober, I think he might’ve smacked me around some. It was probably what I needed, but I was so angry I pushed everyone away, especially those whose opinions I didn’t like. Most of all you, and you only ever wanted to do the best for me.
You know you never complained and that made things worse. Looking out for your dad taught you that. Taught you to make do with a bad lot and not make a big deal out of it. You should’ve left me years ago, when I was stable, when we knew all there was to know. I’ve been such a colossal berk.
But now I sound like the old me, blaming you again. I hate how easily I can fall back into that. I’m not that man anymore. At least, I’m trying not to be. I can’t be who I was before Jeffrey, but I need to be someone much better than who I was after him.
Eugenia left me. Of course she did. I was a bastard. I deserved to be dumped. I got older but my brain is stuck at eighteen. It’s like I never grew up because I never took any responsibility.
I don’t mean I was responsible for getting attacked. I definitely don’t mean you were. I mean I was responsible for what happened afterwards and how after I got better I got bitter and let that bitterness become the whole of my life.
It’s a valid reaction. There are people in my therapy group who are like that. They’re hard to sympathise with and that took me by surprise. I want to tell them to grow up, to make lemonade. But then I realised I’m not much better and I made a terrible mess.
I always thought Jeffrey wrecked us. I know now I did it. Not intentionally of course, though it must seem that way to you.
I’m wondering if you’ve even read this far. I really can’t imagine that you’d ever want to hear from me again. I had to stop writing this and start again at least a dozen times and I still don’t know if it’s wise to post it. I say post because it’s so much more of a process than an email and I need the whole address the envelope, limp to the post office routine as a counter measure against further stupidity. Pressing send is all too easy. Like blaming you was. Like making you feel guilty for wanting something better than what we had. Like writing the words I’m sorry are.
I should’ve had the grace to leave you alone, not to pull your thoughts to all this unhappiness again. I’m more or less resolved that whatever I do will be the wrong thing. I know that’s how you used to feel with me. No win. If I don’t at least attempt to make contact with you and tell you how sorry I am that’s just shitty, but in doing so, well, in doing so, that’s just shitty too, isn’t it? Par for the course with me, right. And that’s not a question. I know the answer is yes.
