Sorry if the following sounds trite but I've been doing a lot of thinking the last couple of days. I've been thinking that maybe I have abandonment issues.
My overwhelming emotion, once the shock of Heath's death subsided, was an almost all-consuming anger. Anger at Heath, anger at other grievers and the cannibalistic media, but mainly, anger at myself. I'm angry that I let myself be sucked into the Heath universe only to be dumped just when it was getting really good.
The bastard seduced me with his amazingly affecting, open and generous performances. They were so effective that I began to return the favour. I let my guard down, opened up and made an emotional commitment. For the first time in quite a while, I actually felt something. After years of emotional self-preservation, I reciprocated. I mean, it seemed like a pretty safe arrangement, a real win-win situation.
All he had to do was keep making movies. Throw me a bone once in while, an Ennis here, a Jacob there, anything I could sink my teeth in and feed on and just feel! I was looking forward to him becoming a director, maybe mentor some young actors, record music, just keep on living (and giving). The point is, I had plans and I was in for the long-haul. I was even looking forward to defending him when he got old, bald and possibly Brando-fat and embarrassing. (Of course, by then I'd be at best, a senile old man in Depends trying to feel-up disgusted orderlies, but that's beside the point.) Instead, just like that, he dumped me. It's interesting how selfish grief can be sometimes.
I'm still horribly sad that Heath is gone, sad for Matilda and everyone else in his life who loved him and sad for all the movies he won't be in, but to my relief I'm much less angry. I think I'll be ok.
Thanks for allowing me this therapy, people.