Yesterday was all about personal closure. I had a longish talk with my friend R.S. in Arizona about several important things re: the friendship. My usual policy applies with what was told to me. But my own thoughts have a less stringent trade policy. In essence, I disclosed that it had been difficult to be there through what's been an overwhelmingly negative period in her life. When I met Ratt and others around here, it was fun and easy. I subsequently was, at best, an okay friend to her and subconsciously decided to blow her off a few times by forgetting a plan I'd made without thinking much about it. So I talked about these things, we made up, and I felt better. She may get a job soon, which is great because it would (obviously) solve many of her problems.

But then in my own way I said goodbye to someone who--let's be honest--hasn't been a friend for years.

I met T.M. online back in some outer stretch of 2003. That was during the second renaissance of Diaryland chat, back when it was still up. I recall casting off my usual gunked up poetics laced with delicate profanity and naughty amusements. She found this intriguing, sent me a PM, and we carried on a pleasant conversation. She pursued me after I initially didn't take much notice of her. Her life story ambled against the skids and hard rock emotional quandaries. This manifested as ethereal-laden poetry that bespoke emotion more than narrative. The amount of pain and bitterness and beauty in it compelled me to get to know her better. I didn't have anyone in my life like that at the time. I even seemed to make her happy in otherwise miserable circumstances, and that sort of symbiosis played out.

The central problem was always trying to contact her. At first this was relatively easy, but over time it was like she would appear at random. So there were brief moments of connection followed by increasingly long periods of vast desert. I told myself many lies at this time. She'd moved and made a big life change; she didn't really have internet access. Things of that nature. I talked away doubt because I'd somehow come to deeply love someone I'd never met before. My mind would turn back to the times where she called me in Detroit those years ago, all of the pleasant notes and back-and-forth poetry sessions, and the gradual sense that I'd found someone who brought out the literary side of me perfectly. She was broken and sweet and anti-thoughtful and gorgeous and selfish and loving. I even seem to recall a conversation where I suggested we meet, see how that worked, and if it did maybe she could move up to Madison with me. I seem to recall she liked that idea. God that still hurts.

The central problem was actually that I made myself either too available, emasculated, or some other factor. Another was that as time went on, I got less of a solid notion exactly how she felt. I'd try to find clues in her writing, but I was never sure.

It got to be that she updated once every 6 months and left a hasty note on my page. At first I felt like a sailor's wife receiving this kind of sporadic contact. But it began to sour and decay. It began to become too painful, and in combination with the longer waiting, the responses, how badly I missed her and wanted her back in my life, and the gradual realization that she probably didn't care about me anymore, I wrote that I never wanted to speak to her again. That message is still up there, now the last one due to deleting subsequent ones.

It made no sense. I know from speaking to her Mom (see below) that she didn't have a phone or 'net access for a time at least, but I thought, "You knew how important you were to me. You could have written postcards, or accosted some Starbucks asshole for 3 minutes to write. But you didn't."

After a year and a half I thought about it, wrote to her, and said why I did it. We tried getting back in contact. So I called the number she gave me. Her Mom is a nice person and I'd call a handful of times to say that, well, I'd called, here was my number, and please pass that on.

Nothing ever came of it. I was sad but at that point not surprised. It was once the time where she tried to get my attention, and then, years later, I had gone to mildly ludicrous lengths just to talk to her again. Yes, it could all be construed as pathetic. In retrospect I see that quite clearly. At the time, until those latter times, however, I just missed her company. I missed her. The fucked up thing is that I still miss her.

So over this last year, when she posted a few times, I didn't bother contacting her. I'd put forward enough effort. I knew she didn't care. Over the last few months, she uncharacteristically wrote more. I didn't understand the subject or what it meant beyond, "I am angry and sad at someone". I wanted to laugh it off. And last night, I got the impression that that was that. No more writing, or musing over old archived posts. Just done.

And I felt and feel sad about it. I'd known for a long time it'd fit the description of Erin and Hillary: very close at first, then distant, then just sporadic and gone or cruel. Despite that knowledge, and years knowing it, and having people in my life now who do love me, I still love her. Not the 'I'll wait for your life to get less fucked up so we can be how we were' sort of love. But in a 'somehow I still wish you bothered enough to try being my friend without your bullshit' way.

I guess it's good. I recently found closure with Hillary without re-establishing that friendship, long ago made my piece with Erin in my own way, and have otherwise gotten rid of everyone who was not healthy for me. I learned never to let go of someone you love if they still love you, even if it's fucking awful sometimes.

I guess she was the last.

I wish it could have not been this way.

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