I need you

I let go of her hand. The tears pouring down my face, I went into the hall to break the news to my sister.

"She's gone. It's over."

I walked outside, hands shaking, dialing your number.

"She's gone. I need you. I need you so badly."

"We decided to stay here a few more days. She's dead. What could I possibly do for you now? I'm heading out with friends. You're strong. You'll be fine."

Click . . . .

The dead silence on the other end of the line was too much. I dropped my phone, wrapped my arms around myself and sunk to the ground. Alone . . .

I looked up briefly. My sister's husband was holding her. My brother's wife was holding him. I was barely holding on to myself.

Typical . . . .

You barely held my hand at the funeral, told me I was making a scene with my show of emotions. I needed to pull it together and be strong for my children.

"Okay,  but who's going to be strong for me?"

You refused to stay with me at night. You said my outbursts were immature and embarrassing. I learned to hug the pillows tight enough to me to not feel completely alone as I spent the first two weeks crying myself to sleep after my Mom died.

Every rejection from you become fresh mortar for my walls.

I never wanted to be this woman: a woman too strong to need anyone. But what choice did I have? I learned a long time ago to only depend on myself. I wasn't raised to believe men were the heroes who rushed in to save a princess. That was the stuff of fairy tales. My reality was of men who left, men who broke promises and men who let the women they professed to love grieve alone.

I tried again, a few years later, to let someone in, to need them. My daughter was sick. Really sick. I wanted you with me at the hospital. You said you'd think about it. I held onto the hope that you'd come through. They wheeled her back into the room for the procedure, I walked outside, holding my phone. No missed calls from you, no texts, nothing. I called once, you never answered. I finished my cigarette and went back inside to wait for her.

I put my phone away. I had more important things to deal with. You texted hours later:

"Are you okay?"

"No, but I will be. I got this. I can handle it from here."

The final brick was set.

And I hate it being like this; hate being this person. But what choice do I have? Seriously, is there a second option?

Because what no one gets is that those of us that are the strongest, we are that way because of years of toughening up, years of callousing.

I hate doing it all on my own, never asking for help. But no one seems to understand the humiliation that comes when you do reach out and are left empty handed. It's soul crushing. So you learn to not place yourself there anymore. Even if "there" is the last place you want to be.

But in the end, if I allowed myself to be truly honest, what I hate the most is that I've never really figured out how to be completely hard, completely impenetrable, less, well, me.

Because I still wish for that person who will reach out and be there.

But men can't read minds . . . .

    . . . . and I no longer know how to ask . . . .
 
      . . . . so I stay here until I figure it out . . . .

         . . . . .even though I have no idea where to start.

I just ask one thing: stop judging a book you were never willing to read past the prologue.