Asshole

God I miss you this morning. I still struggle with wrapping my brain around the fact that you’re gone. Coming to terms with your death hasn’t been easy. Every time I think I’ve gained some solid ground underfoot, something happens and I backslide right down that sheer cliff face. It’s a Sisyphean effort to start again and I’m fucking exhausted. Some days I trudge along, always forward and never straight. Some days I stay hidden in my cave, the light of the sun too bright and cheery to feel good on my skin.

Someone asked about you this week and, as I told them the story, I relived the experience of your death. I hadn’t cried about you in days and there I was, unable to staunch the flow of grief. It was wonderful to have her support and yet I was so angry with her, with myself, and – perhaps most of all – with you. I had thought I was in a better place about this and it was more than a little shocking to feel just how fresh the pain still is.

When I played on Friday night there was a moment when my whole body clenched and tears came spontaneously and it wasn’t until my heart cried your name that I knew what had happened. It was a particularly sensitive hit and I played it off to my top as a purely physical reaction. Thankfully, we’re new to each other and I was able to sell it. He made a solid effort to bring my energy back to where it needed to be and I let him. It made me realise that I still haven’t done that cathartic scene I crave.

I dreamt about you last night. It’s been, wow, over a week since the last time. That’s how I find myself writing at 5am. You’re still one of my muses.

Maybe the dream came because I talked about you last night, a couple of times, and only got a little choked up. I was almost able to pull it off as normal conversation. I sincerely doubt that one person even noticed any pausing for slightly deeper breaths – though the other person was well aware of my struggle and checked in with me around my support mechanisms. I’m so tired of carrying this grief around that my first instinct was to pretend that I don’t need support anymore. He knew though. He was right. Death isn’t pretty or easy or kind. Grief isn’t linear.

I played with someone last week that had energy similar to yours and I couldn’t focus, couldn’t get into headspace, couldn’t drag my mind away from you. I don’t think I can play with her again any time soon which sucks cuz I’d been looking forward to that for MONTHS and I know she had a great time. The funny thing is, I have a new partner and he has a lot of the same sort of energy you had but from a totally different facet of you. I don’t know why her energy was too painful for me to be around and his is ok.

Overall, it is getting better. Slowly but surely I’m acknowledging that your death means you aren’t there when I want you. That your arms aren’t available. That your snuffling laugh won’t be heard again by my ears. Acknowledgement isn’t acceptance though, not by a long shot. My forehead still aches to feel your kiss. My body still tries to curl up against yours as I sleep and I still wake up when I realise you’re not there.

I love you. I miss you. YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. My hand is out, reaching, ever empty.

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