Loss

This loss, Bobo. This loss. Losing you is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. We’re at the two month mark now, and these feelings of crushing sadness and depression come for me day and night. There are no days that I don’t cry. There are no hours where I don’t feel the emotion and the pain well up on me and border on losing control. At work, at home, at the gym, in your room at night, in the car, everywhere. I can be distracted in a conversation and then from somewhere unforeseen your loss comes for me. I go mostly silent and drift. Some people notice a change in the dialog. From me being engaged in the interaction to a complete and total check out. From thoughtful answers to “yes” or “no” in the blink of an eye.

The wound this has caused is still bleeding, and I’m becoming more and more unsure if there’s enough in my body, in my psychology, to stop the flow. I’ve read enough about this process to know that in many instances of a loss like this, the process of this level of grief is years long. The loss never heals. You’ll never be gone from me. I know that. But I also don’t know if I have the strength to do it. I won’t let go of your memory and the love I have for you until I’m gone also. Which says to me this pain and suffering could overtake me. I may not have what it takes to continue Bobo. In this darkness the best way is to just come join you. What’s the worst thing then? I’m gone, poof. And this pain is gone as well. This suffering and sadness. What’s the best thing? Me and you are together. And we get to spend the rest of forever tottering around in random playtime with no need for timelines or food or poop schedules or school days. At this point right now, that sounds exquisite.

I know I can’t do that though. To tap out and give in to this is giving up on your memory here and giving up on the others that are suffering this loss as well. I don’t know if I’m providing them a “service” by being around really, but the lack of your father’s ability to handle it would be a strike on the foundation of people still carrying on your memory. And there are quite a few. It’s a luxury I can’t afford.

I can say in no uncertain terms, that this loss has created an ability for me to show my pain outwardly in a way that I never thought possible. My heart is on my sleeve and I don’t believe until this happened, anyone would have said that about me. I’ve been a guarded, stoic person in relation to showing emotion all my life. But you have opened that up for me. Since the day you were born I knew you’d changed me, but since you’ve gone, the shift in me emotionally has been massive.

I miss you, my little wonderful friend. I miss everything about you and today, as I write this, I have no idea how to manage this loss.