The Final Fuck You

Patricia Pan lost her shadow today.
You see,
grief is a strange thing.

Sometimes you don't even know 
that you're carrying it around,
and then before you know it,
it sneaks right up on you

and you're sitting with your inner child 

in the junk drawer of your own existence.

And sometimes they will body slam you 
to make its presence known.
And other times it just adds slight nuisances to your day 
like a petty ex-roommate who steals all of the spoons 
and the microwave plate when they move out.

I can't relate to anyone that misses you.
Your obituary and social media flooded with sadness
as if you were the greatest showman.

The searing pain I keep waiting for,
only realizing that I've been holding onto the hot iron 
with a death grip all these years
and that it’s not coming 

because I was just ignoring it the whole time.

I think that I've been pretty good at dealing 
with those nuisances, 
that is until today.

On the eve of my 44th birthday.
After I processed the grief that came 
with the first birthday since you were gone 
from this big blue marble.

I wanted to text you how many babies were born 
on your birthday like I always did.

Like I do for everyone.

Sharing is caring,

what's better than a birthday?

I was so excited to tell you that it was lucky seven.

You were so removed from my life,

that I forgot that you died.

I took the magnet frame from your fridge 
when you were on your death bed.
The one with the picture mom took from my eighth birthday.
The last birthday party that I had
where I felt like I mattered for a day.

I still watch Quantum Leap and M.A.S.H. 

and Star Trek wishing we could bond.

I used to watch in wonder

and quiet acceptance that you were in control of the remote.

And everything else.

The last time we had an actual conversation,

I was so excited that we both liked rocks 

and that you had always wanted a rock tumbler

but it was something I grew up doing with my real dad

that I ran home and immediately ordered one

that I never got to give you for Father's Day 

because of the choice you made to be yourself without grace.

Sure, 
these four deaths unloaded what I like to refer to as 
"Load-Bearing feelings"
and my entire life has crashed down around me
but I'll be okay.

Eventually,

and that's okay that this isn't it.

I think I just have to say it out loud more often.

I cannot break generational curses 
if I am still seeking approval
from the generation that's cursed.
And this generation made me feel as if 
their curses were to be worn like a wet blanket.

And it wasn't that I woke up with a plan
to be processing a metric fuck ton.
Apparently,
I know it's not apparently grief, 
it's more. 

I knew that I had it.
I knew that it was my shadow 
but also,
didn't feel like I was ready to process it 
because of every other fire I had to put out first.

Frankly, at times I didn't even think 
any of it was worth processing.
I don't forgive you
and maybe I'm not supposed to say that.
Maybe I'm supposed to tie it all up with grace and healing
and an “I wish you well,"
but I don't.

I might have been the oldest child,

yet treated as if I was the "other child."

I don't wish you well,

not because I'm bitter
but because you knew exactly what you were doing.

You knew it would break me and you did it anyway.
The way you'd flippantly say my name.
Abbreviated as if I was too much to acknowledge.
It made me feel like I shouldn't exist 
Every. Single. Time.
 
I was a child.
And you drove me crazy and then dropped me off.
They say forgiveness is for me not for you,
but what if I already found peace 
without handing you the gift of my grace?

What if I moved on without letting you off the hook?
Because some people don't deserve closure or softness
or a second chance at being seen as gentle 
when they were anything but to you.

The person feeling the invisible but still very real pain.

You wrecked me and then walked away like it was normal.
Like love is supposed to leave bruises.
Like I should be the one doing the work 
to heal your damage.

But nah.
I'm done carrying the wound 
and the guilt for not forgiving it.
So no,
I don't forgive you.
I outgrew you.

I have finally outlived the version of me 
that waited for a real apology
that you were never man enough to give me.

And I don't need to hold hope anymore.
Hope that one day you'll change.
Hope that I meant something more to you than just control.

You did for everyone else,
I just wasn't worth loving.
Not to you, anyway.

I found peace in knowing you were a lesson.
A hard one I didn't deserve but survived anyway.
And that's enough.
Today.

So, to quote the last text you ever sent me,

FUCK YOU.