I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

The end of the year is coming and it’s scaring me. I think I’ve been avoidant of my emotions lately and haven’t been able to find the courage to face my grief. Most days I think it’s alright for me to just go about my day and miss you – since that’s the way life is going to be from now. But other days, I have to remind myself that I’m allowed to openly grieve. I can look sadder and not speak if I don’t want to. I have to remind myself that in less than two months, my boyfriend would have been in Heaven for one full year – that’s another way I’m being avoidant, by telling myself it’s a nice thing for you to be in Heaven. If anything, I should be happy for you. Maybe Earth is Hell. Maybe we have to be here for a while more before going up, and the bad people go to another place that’s worse than here after they pass on. Or maybe this is just Earth, though it feels like Hell. I can hear you say, “Please write about something else before you offend anyone.” You’re probably right. Let’s talk about something else.

Let’s talk about grief. What is grief? If someone had asked me a year ago what grief is, I’d likely say something simple like “missing someone who’s no longer with you”. I think you can grieve a lost friendship or lost relationship even if the person has not passed. So I think that simple definition makes sense. But if you ask me now, I’d say grief is a bunch of things. Grief is trying not to use the pen your loved one gave you, so that it never runs of out ink. Grief is going into your loved one’s room and sitting on the edge of the bed (or on the floor) so that the bed doesn’t crease. Grief is keeping your loved one’s room exactly the way it was when they left. Did you know that, Josh? That nothing would change. Did you know that after you passed nothing would change at all? I wish you knew that nothing would have changed. I wish I could have somehow told you that I’d still come over every other day. I wish I could have told you how life would be like (this is something I think about a lot. If telling you that would have helped you stay.) Your room would stay the exact same – with the addition of things we still buy/make you. Your dirty socks are still on your study table. Your bedsheets are the exact same, your school bag is flopped and in the same place it’s always been, your water bottle is still half empty. We actually shake your water bottle every day so that it doesn’t get mouldy. Nothing has changed, yet everything has.

Grief is learning. Grief is me learning how to upload videos of you singing onto Spotify so that your family and I can listen to you on the go. You have four albums on Spotify now. I don’t think you expected that. Grief is me learning how to start several podcasts, also on Spotify, of your voice notes – also so that we can listen on the go. You might not have enjoyed that your mum and sister can now listen to the voice notes you sent me, but grief makes nothing embarrassing. I think they’d listen and laugh and enjoy your voice more than wonder what the heck we were talking about. Grief is speaking to you, in my head or aloud, as if you’re still right beside me. Grief is turning to an empty space to ask for your opinion, knowing that anyone sane who looks at me will think I’m not.

Grief is remembering you – the things you love, the movies you watch, the food you eat (or rather, don’t eat). Grief is only hanging around people who know you, people who love you, just so I can never stop talking about you. I wrote a whole lot more examples and I could write a whole lot more, but as I wrote, I realized that grief is just remembering you. Grief is just remembering in different ways. Grief is just so, so much love – love spilling over everywhere. Everyone I know knows you even if they’ve never met you. I plan to keep it that way.

I can’t wait to see you again. Aren’t you glad I wrote about something less controversial! I love you more, always, and forever.

Love always,
Sha