90

It’s day 90, Bobo. It’s been 90 days since I pulled you out of the pool. Tomorrow it will be 90 days since you passed. But today…. this 90 day anniversary was the start of my life unraveling. And it should be noted, I think. It should be given a nod. Today is the 90th day since I began dying inside.

It’s a slower progression than the leaps and bounds I made toward the grave in those first several weeks. That part of the downhill slide was steep. And fast. Now it’s more of a slow, methodical deconstruction of my psychology. I’m slower to respond to questions, slower to think about things. You’re in my head, impeding thought. There is no clarity in my thought anymore. It’s just cloudy and messy. And there’s no real purpose. If someone isn’t giving me guidance or directing me on what they need specifically, I can’t really come up with what I should be doing.

I’m feeling it in my body too, bud. I hurt more. Little aches and pains. More stomach cramps. More headaches. I feel like maybe it’s just all a physical manifestation of losing my will to live. Normally this probably happens to people as they get old. I’m not particularly old yet, but in the last 90 days, I’m pretty sure I’ve aged 40 years. Without you around to keep me motivated, I don’t really care about much. I find the things I’m most motivated about are going into your room in the morning, going into your room at night to read to you, and the once a day picture posting on your Facebook that I do. Those are like the real peaks of my day. Besides that, I just float. Drifting. Depressed.