they/them used as a anonymouszation.
two years.
i blinked and somehow two years went by without writing anything down. no new entries, no updates, nothing. part of me thought that meant things were better. like silence equals peace. like maybe i didn’t need this anymore.
turns out i just got good at ignoring myself.
ignoring is easy when you pretend it's discipline. like yeah i’m being productive. yeah i’m keeping it together. yeah i’m doing what people are supposed to do. smile. nod. keep your mess tucked behind your teeth. nobody likes a downer, right?
but ignoring isn't healing. it’s just...quiet damage. internal erosion. grief doesn't go away when you look away from it. it just learns how to whisper through the cracks you thought you sealed.
so yeah, it's been a while. and i don’t even know where to start. i thought the worst part would be the first few months, but honestly the slow decay is worse. i used to cry and scream and break things. now i just sit. and stare. and feel like a glitch in a world that kept spinning without me.
i’ve had so many moments where i catch myself halfway through a laugh and feel guilty for forgetting. or i’ll be walking past something stupid like a vending machine and suddenly get punched in the gut because they used to buy me those awful sour candies from it and now there just. gone.
like literally gone. not “moved away” gone. not “grew apart” gone. like deleted from the server. character reset. game over. ctrl + alt + escape from reality. i still can’t say the word. that word. i hate that word.
and i hate how people talk about it like it’s a statistic. like it's some afterthought. like it wasn’t the loudest fucking explosion that split my life into before and after.
the before version of me was...i don’t even know. naive? softer? i think i used to be the kind of person who believed that love could save people. that being there for someone mattered. that words made a difference. maybe they still do. but not always. not enough.
the after version of me doesn’t cry as much. not because it doesn’t hurt, but because the tears dried up and turned into insomnia and stomachaches and ghost limbs of emotions that no longer have names.
i tried to be Better. capital B. tried yoga. tried tea. tried journaling like a pinterest therapist girlie. tried doing things “for me.” but it always felt fake. like i was cosplaying as a functioning person while inside i was just static and white noise and broken neon signs.
there were stretches where i did okay. made schedules. took vitamins. cleaned my room. replied to messages. even laughed without feeling like a fraud. but it always came back. the weight. the ache. the feeling of being out of sync with the rest of the world. like a video buffering on dial-up while everyone else streams in HD.
and the thing is—no one really talks about how lonely grief is when the world thinks you should be done grieving. like you get this grace period, this window of socially acceptable sadness, and then suddenly everyone stops asking. stops checking in. stops saying his name. like they’ve moved on and expect you to follow.
but grief doesn’t do clean exits. it lingers. it haunts. it burrows into your skin like smoke from a fire you didn’t even know was burning.
some nights i still wake up mid-panic, heart racing, hands shaking, thinking i missed a call. like maybe there’s a version of the timeline where they didn’t do it. maybe i was just supposed to pick up faster. text back faster. show up faster. i know that’s not logical. but grief isn’t logical. it’s cruel. it’s a broken record that plays all the “what ifs” on repeat.
i’ve written letters to them. unsent. unfiltered. angry ones. sad ones. the kind you scream through your keyboard and then reread in silence wondering who the hell you’ve become. i write to keep them real. to keep me real. to not forget the way there laugh cracked open rooms. the way they made stupid jokes about that one time i slipped on the stairs
sometimes i talk to him/her out loud. in my car. in the shower. on walks. like he/her's still there. not because i expect an answer. just because pretending he/she hears me hurts less than silence.
therapy didn’t work. not because it’s bad. just because i wasn’t ready. every time the therapist asked “and how does that make you feel?” i wanted to say “like screaming into a void while the world keeps scrolling.” but instead i smiled and said “it’s complicated.”
some days i did better. small things. kept a plant alive for almost a week. ate breakfast three days in a row. listened to a song that made me feel something sharp instead of numb. watched the sun rise and didn’t wish i was somewhere else.
other days i dissolved. no appetite. no will. no voice. just blank stares and background noise. nights that blurred into mornings without meaning. whole weekends lost to mindless videos and bottomless scrolling because facing myself felt unbearable.
people say “you’re so strong” like it’s a compliment. but it feels more like a sentence. like if i show weakness i’ll break the illusion and everyone will back away. like strength is a costume i didn’t ask to wear.
i’ve learned to survive boring days. that feels like a weird kind of victory. not in a triumphant way, just...a quiet one. like, yeah, i’m still here. i brushed my teeth today. i remembered to drink water. i answered an email. huge.
i still hate mirrors. still flinch when people ask “how are you?” in that tone that means “please say ‘fine’ so i can move on.” still miss someone who isn’t coming back like a phantom limb that itches in the rain.
but i also danced around my room once to a dumb song and laughed so hard i almost fell over. i rewatched a movie we both loved and didn’t cry the whole time. i sat under the stars and thought, “maybe i don’t want to disappear just yet.”
i still don’t know what healing looks like. i just know it doesn’t look like pretending. it doesn’t look like smiling for others while hollowing out for yourself. maybe it looks like this. like writing again. like being honest in ways that scare me. like admitting i’m not okay and maybe that’s okay too.
no grand closure. no neat ending. just me. still here. still breathing. still wondering what comes next. still carrying him with me, even when it’s heavy.
i don’t have answers. just better questions. like: what small thing can i do today that doesn’t make me hate myself? or: who do i want to be if i let go of guilt? or maybe just: what if surviving is enough?
so yeah. it's been a while. and no, i'm not “better.” but i’m writing. and that’s a start.
if you're still reading this, thank you. even if i don't know who you are. even if you're just a stranger behind a screen. it means something.
i’m still here. and that’s not nothing.