Please forgive all that I could not do

I've been tormented recently by thoughts of Marilyn Monroe, or more accurately, whether or not I would have been able to save her.

In my darkest moments I worry that I would have only fed the flame, exasperated the situation, made it so much worse. I worry that I would have dismissed all that she felt as some sort of high maintenance nonsense, unimportant self doubt. I worry that I would have laughed in the face of the deep seated fear that buried her.
Moments like that make me ill. I feel nothing but guilt and repulsion, drowning in my own ignorance.

As I slowly recover from a situation that I've created wholly inside my mind I am reminded that I am an empathetic person. Somebody who would comfort, cajole and distract. I would love and listen to all that she had to say and if I had no advice to offer, I would listen some more. She needed somebody who would listen without judgement or motive. Above all else she needed to know that she had that.

I would lie with her and be with her through long nights that she thought would never end. I would brush her hair and make her bagels and cups of tea with lemon. I would run her baths and read her books. I would be all that she didn't have.

And whilst I am relieved by the realisation that I am good, these thoughts do nothing to lift the blues that fill all that I am.
Because she is still gone.
I could not save her.

For that I will never forgive myself.