It’s been four years since we lost you. It’s been four years and three days since I last saw you. It’s been four years minus two days since I found out I wouldn’t be seeing you again.
It hurts. In times of loneliness, it hurts more. Despite the happy things I’ve been able to do and achieve, there’s still something that hurts all the same.
I’m torn between notions. At one extreme, people would agree it wasn’t my fault. I was no where near you when it happened. You didn’t do it because of anything I did. Hell, I probably wasn’t even on your mind the day the disease took you.
At another, could you argue that there wasn’t anyone that could have done anything? If someone had been there. If they had called right then. Some kind of chaos butterfly effect that would have changed the outcome.
And if something could have been done, why couldn’t I have been the one? I knew. I suffered the same.
What could I have done for you? What can I do for you?
I know why. I logically know why. But in my own sickness, I can’t help but ask. I can’t help but wonder. I can’t help but want you here today.
I know why you’re gone. It’s because a disease took you.
I know why you’re gone. Mental healthcare is difficult.
I know why you’re gone.
And the best thing I can do for you is to stay here.
(If you or someone you know suffers from depression, please reach out for help. There are online therapists and mental health professionals. The National Suicide Hotline has their phone number [1-800-273-8255] and even online chat.)