Your Death Made Me Hate Myself


I hate myself because I didn’t set aside enough time for you. I didn’t text you enough. I didn’t hang out with you enough. I didn’t shower you with compliments about how proud I was of everything you’ve accomplished. I didn’t let you know how much you meant to me.

I hate myself because I can’t remember the last words you said to me. I can’t remember the last time I hugged you goodbye. I can’t remember the last time we really talked. I have no idea how long it’s been. I have no idea how much time has passed since I last heard your voice.

I hate myself because I never memorized the exact shade of your eyes or the angle your smile tilts. I never paid enough attention to the way your laugh sounded or the way you said my name. I took your existence for granted. I never paid enough attention.

I hate myself because I don’t have enough pictures with you to pin to my walls to help me remember shape of your face. I don’t have enough texts from you to look through when I’m stuck missing you. I don’t have nearly enough memories with you. I didn’t get nearly enough time with you.

I hate myself because right before I heard about your death, I was whining about how I hate the way I look and how I can never take a good picture. I hate myself because I spent the entire day depressed about petty shit that means nothing in the grand scheme of life. I hate myself because, while you were taking your last breaths, I was wasting mine complaining about absolutely nothing.

I hate myself because I’m a selfish bitch. Because it never even crossed my mind to check in on you just to see how you were doing. If I was nice enough to reach out to you, I could have had one more conversation with you. I could have earned myself one more memory.

I hate myself because I have no idea what to say to the other people who lost you. I have no idea how to help them through this kind of suffering. I can’t figure out how to make this okay, but really, I don’t think it will ever be okay. I don’t think any of us are going to get over the shock of losing you.

I hate myself because there’s nothing I can do to bring you back. There’s no way for me to save you. There’s no way for me to rewind time and set things right.

I hate myself because you deserved more from everyone in your life. More phone calls. More hugs. More love. More appreciation.

I hate myself — but I hate this world even more — because I shouldn’t have to miss you. I shouldn’t have to feel this way.

And you shouldn’t have to be gone.

Holly Riordan is the author of Lifeless Souls, available here.