5-stages

[5-stages]

it’s been a long time. not since I’ve thought of you, I still think of you everyday. but today I talked about you, and I smiled. it was all a mess of thoughts and memories and I felt the tears but never let them fall. i will always be sad that I cannot share every day of my future with you, that we will never watch the sun rise over coffee again, that we will never rest in each other’s arms again, that we never find enjoyment in the simple act of grocery shopping together again. you will never watch in awe as I prepare or perfect omelet for you again. and I will never fondly play with your hair as you obsessively paint on your bedroom floor. my head will never again rest on your chest as a movie plays, and I will never again hum you to sleep when the nightmares grow too real. i will never get to smell your sweet scent or feel your warmth, ever again.

but it all happened once, and it all happened many times. and I remember it. the sun rises and the grocery trips and the omelets and the nightmares. the memories are not sad. the lack of a future is, but recalling the days of past bring me calm and contentment. that somewhere amidst your difficult life there were moments of joy that I was fortunate enough to be granted permission to witness, to inspire, to enjoy along side you. i will forever be grateful for your memories and the impact you had on me. even if it meant never losing you the way I did, I would never give away those precious moments we shared.

i love you. i wish we could have had more time but I am happy with the time we did have, and that it was as good as it was. I don’t know if we will ever meet again in some other world, in some distant future far after death, or if our souls will never cross again. but I will love you regardless. i will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if you are simply waiting for my time here to end. you beautiful soul, your good heart is safe within mine. my love.

[5-stages]

I still miss you.

But I think about you now and I realize

I barely think about you.

And when I do

It’s with the context that I know

I’m moving on

And healing.

[5-stages]

Facebook.

I don't think the day will come when I won’t miss you.

I’m scared the day will come when I don’t think about you.

I know the day will come when I think about you and am able to smile, I just don't know if I want that day to come or not.

...

You chose me as the legacy account on your Facebook. It’s been nearly nine months and I still haven’t started the process of memorializing it. 

I don’t want to. Maybe it’s because there’s some little part of me that still thinks you’re out there, and that you’ll come back and want to use your Facebook again. Maybe I didn’t want to take away that piece of social media that you were so active on, that you met and helped so many people through.

...

They say that in movies, if you didn’t see someone die or didn’t see a body then they probably aren’t actually dead. 

I didn't have to look at you’re body after you did what you did. 

You were cremated and I didn’t have the guts to approach you’re mother after the funeral and see where your ashes were stowed.

I never saw any proof of your death aside from the wake of broken hearts you left behind on earth.

I don’t think this is all some elaborate hoax. 

But given the scenarios there isn’t a way for me to conclusively rule it out.

...

I want to heal and move on.

I want to memorialize your account so no one an hack it and post as you. 

I don’t want to forget you.

I don’t want to admit in such a definite way that you are gone.

Gone and not coming back.

[5-stages]

Whether or not Chris took his life that morning was because of the conversation   we had had the night before doesn’t matter to me. Because the truth is that because of a lapse in judgement on my part, because I decided to ignore the fact that perhaps he was not as well as he was letting on, because I didn’t see the warning signs that night, he is gone.

I knew Chris as well as anyone. And even if I didn't, I knew him well enough to know that suicidal ideation was not a passing fancy for him. It was a constant state. A day without self harm? A monumental achievement. A week without eating? Not surprising in the slightest. 

So why on that night of all nights did I assume he was okay? Why did I think that my telling him I needed a few days to myself, a chance to recuperate because I was going through so much, wouldn’t have an affect on him?

He was a source of stress in my life. But if the people we cared about weren’t, then really, we probably don’t care about them enough. Chris was no different. A virtual cocktail of mental and physical illnesses, it’s a miracle Chris stayed with us as long as he did. PTSD, anorexia, anxiety, psychosis, Crohn’s, OCD, potassium deficiency, alcoholism, depression... a one case study on how much a person could be put through before they finally collapsed from the stress of everything. And on top of all of that, Chris was trans. Not only were people dismissive of his suffering for all the disease they couldn’t see, many were cruel for the fact that he didn’t fit into their idea of typical.

Chris, like many of us, lived our daily lives regardless of what turmoil lurked beneath the surface. But he, unlike many of us, was honest about it. He was more than willing to talk through his shortcomings and sufferings, and even more so to listen to your’s, should you feel comfortable enough to. 

Perhaps that was my problem. I saw so much what other people coming to Chris, seeking his advise and words of comfort, did to him. I cannot recall a single night spent with him that I did not awake at some ungodly hour to find him talking or texting with someone who was in pain and needing comfort. He was up, at everyone else’s beck and call, ready to do what I believe God put him on this earth to do - whether Chris believed in a God or not. He was meant to help people. He was always there for me, but the more I saw how he helped others, the less I wanted help from him. I didn’t want to be another source of stress for him. I didn’t want to be a reason he couldn’t sleep, or eat, or be sent into another bout of depression. I didn’t want him to have to take care of me.

Which is what, inevitably, led to the events of April the 10th, 2018. 

I was stressed because of work. The new store manager was a creep, and my DM was a bully. I was working extended hours. My uncle - the third that year - had died recently. My mother was sick. My best friend was having problems with her girlfriend. I was still getting used to the new apartment. Whatever it had been specifically, didn’t matter. I was a wreck and wanted nothing more than to curl into bed with Chris and sleep for as long as possible. But Chris was 2 hours away and we could only talk to each other. 

God, how I missed him. I hated that he wasn't living with me yet. I hated that we only got to see each other once a week, for such a short amount of time. 

But I hated even more spending time with him when I wasn’t in a good mood. With such little time together, I didn’t want his memory of me to be tainted. 

I had to cancel that week’s visit. I needed a day to myself. This wasn’t the first time I had refused to talk about what was troubling me. But this was the first time I allowed myself to take my frustrations out on him.

I told him I felt like a life raft that he was clinging to. That I felt responsible for him, that I felt drained of energy because he was leeching it out of me. 

I only felt this way because I had spent so long ignoring my own issues and not accepting the love and care that he offered me. If I had spoken to him, I know he would have listened. That night he begged me to tell him about my troubles, to let him help me the way I helped him, so that I wouldn’t feel like I was the only one putting effort into out relationship.

But I refused. Instead I blamed him for my inability to take care of my own problems, or to ask other for help. I asked for a break. Not a long break, just some time to fix myself so that I could come back to him as the perky, happy, loving girlfriend I had been. But relationships and mental illness are not that simple, and my ability to communicate was even more lacking. 

Chris took this as me not wanting him. But of course, how else could he have taken it? I told him I needed a break from him. I blamed him for the way I felt. 

I did the one thing that I had been trying to avoid, the one thing that ironically could have been avoided if I had just talked to him from the beginning - I pushed my problems onto him. And in doing so, I sent him into a spiral of depression that caused him to shoot himself in the head not 24 hours later. 

I am aware that his suicide was not, in truth, my fault. There are many aspects of those two days that, given they were different, would have changed the outcome. A series of events that may or may not have started with the conversation we had. A series of events that, sadly, cannot be altered now.

[5-stages]

Writing.

You wrote a lot. 

Sometimes it didn't make sense, sometimes it made perfect sense. Sometimes it made sense only to those who were as broken as you were.

My therapist recommended I write. I told her I already am. A lot. More than what I put up for the public to see. Most of it doesn’t get saved. Most of it never actual makes it out of my head, but in my mind I’ve written whole novels about you.

Past.

Present.

Future.

Possibilities.

Memories.

Mistakes.

I cannot say I’ve gone an hour without thinking about you in some capacity since I met you. Only my dreams may have left you out. Until you left and then even my subconscious feels the need to sprinkle your perfection into my sleeping moments.

I write because I cannot speak. Obviously I have people who are always willing to listen, but I cannot shake the feeling that they tire of hearing about you in a way that I never could. They must tire of every mention, from some funny thing you used to say, or a date of significance that is passing, or the moments when I am reduced to a puddle of tears without a sign or warning. 

I have spoken so much to people about you. People that never got to truly know you. People who never got the chance to know you the way I knew you. People who mean so much to me and given that we had gotten a chance to live  out our lives together, they would have gotten a chance to know you. They need to know you. You deserve to be known. You were and are still so, so special.

But... To them, you have become nothing but a tear in the fabric of my existence. You are not a person, but an experience that I had. An experience that from their perspective, has left me broken and in tatters. Your name means nothing but sadness to them, perhaps anger, perhaps even resentment. 

You do not deserve to be remembered in that way. I want them to know you the way I knew you. But that is impossible. And the more I speak, the more their subconscious ties your existence to my shortcomings. 

So, I write. I express things. I speak of you, I speak of my struggle, I speak of others. In a place where, perhaps, your chapter in this world cannot be tainted, and instead, be preserved. 

It is not the same for me as it is for you. But I think, I owe you this much, if not more.

Perhaps, one day, I will write a book on my struggle, and your’s as well. Something that can help people. I think, more that anything, that is the legacy you would like to leave, had you gotten to write that yourself.

[5-stages]

Dating Pt. 2

I had to tell her.

I liked pretending I was normal for once. Or rather, be with someone who didn't know what hell I've been through this year, and could pretend to be the same person I was a year ago.

The same person, sans my best friend, of course.

I liked pretending I had nothing to hide, like I didn’t have some humongous piece of baggage, waiting in silence to strike. Waiting to rip some good part of my life away from me again.

I liked that she didn’t treat me like I might start to cry if she said the wrong thing or if I saw something that reminded me of you. 

I liked that I could talk about my “best friend” so nonchalantly with her and instead of looking at me with pity, she looked at me with interest.

I liked that she could talk freely to me about anything, without tiptoeing around sensitive issues.

I liked it.

But I didn't like the feeling of being deceiving. I wasn’t lying to her, per say, but I was holding onto a vital fact. A vital fact that, should this relationship continue, would come up. And how would she react, when it did?

Best case? She would embrace me with compassion and promise to help me heal and continue on with my life right alongside her.

Worst case? She would jump ship for someone with potentially less of a traumatic history.

Actual worst case? She would offer herself as a raft for me to cling to in my moments of distress. I’d drag her into my pit of despair and chip away at her beautiful heart until I had leeched every bit of happiness I could out. And then we’d both be suffering in a relationship we’d put too much effort into for us to just end it and peacefully resign to the fact that we are bad for each other.

But of course, that never came up with her.

I had to bail on plans 3 times in a row. I needed to be honest about why.

So I told her.

And I found out there was a fourth option: she told me she liked me and that if I was willing to try, then so was she, but she wouldn’t pressure me into something I wasn't going to be happy with. And I promised the same.

We haven't really talked since, and I’ll chalk this up to an almost-fling I had while mourning the loss of someone very, very dear to me. 

Not a mistake, but not a miracle. A blip in the story of my life. Perhaps an off-handed comment at the end of the prologue to the rest of my life.

I’d be lying if I said I didn't care to see her again. But I know I'm not ready, I know it’s not right for me. And I can’t expect her to wait for me to be better.

[5-stages]

Dating Pt. 1

Not ready.

To be honest, I didn’t think I was ready.

But I also don’t think I’ll ever be “ready” so I suppose there’s no better time then the present to try.

I went on a date the other day. It was fun. 

I spent the whole next day trying to reconcile with myself that it was okay.

I still haven’t forgiven myself. For any of it.

It’s not like I’m lonely. I’m not sure why I did it. To a further extent, I’m not sure why I started with tinder. But I did, and I met someone, and I thought it would just be fun.

But… now I feel guilty. Am I playing with her emotions? She’s two years younger than I am and as far as I know, she hasn’t been through any kind of massive heartbreak. I don’t want to be the reason she has. 

Not that I’m placing that much importance in myself - I have no idea how she really feels about me. It’s almost like I want her to just tell me she isn’t interested so I have an excuse to not try dating right now. 

Funny thing is, I really do like her. We clicked. She was easy to talk to and not just in my normal small talk way. It was really nice.

We held hands the whole evening. On the pretense that I was walking to fast for her short legs and she needed me to slow down, sure, but we held hands nonetheless. 

But I feel dirty, because the things we did… were our things. Not that I planned it, it just worked out that way. They were things I wanted to do and she seemed to like the ideas. 

I took her to our favorite coffee shop.

I took her on the art crawl that we always went on. 

I took her to your favorite restaurant and watched as she ate your favorite Mac and cheese. 

She even suggested we walk aimlessly around Walmart just so we had an excuse to keep hanging out, as if there weren’t enough of our favorite past times to share.

I don’t want her to be you.

I know I’ll see parts of you in everyone I see from now on. I won’t be able to help it.

I don’t want to see you in her.

She isn’t you. I can’t expect her to be. I can’t expect anyone to be. 

But I still wish she could be you.

But I know she isn’t.

I’m conflicted.

Is it selfish to keep seeing her?

Is it selfish to stop seeing her?

I just want to do the right thing.

My therapist says I need to stop focusing on doing the right thing and start focusing on doing what’s right by me.

Trouble is, I don’t know if I can tell the difference anymore.

So, she’s taking me mini golfing next Tuesday.

[5-stages]

Thoughts Pt. 1

If I could go back in time I’d make sure I’d never leave you wondering.

I loved you and you were more than worth being loved.

[5-stages]

convenience.

it’s funny.

i’ve found myself putting more effort into my relationships with other people more than ever before.

it’s funny because in the past i’ve always just been okay with enjoying my time spent with people at moments of convenience, but not really cultivating lasting bonds or anything like that with them.

i’m really good at that, chatting with people who mean nothing to me, having an entire conversation that subsists of half-true stories and half-hearted compliments.

our friendship started that way. we were living together so we hung out. then i moved out and i didn’t think much of it.

but you always wanted to hang out even when we were living in the same house. if i’m being honest, in the beginning i found it a little annoying how much you always wanted to hang out. because it wasn’t convenient. but then i started to realize that sometimes, people are worth the inconvenience. because really, when you want to be with someone, you don’t see it as inconvenient at all. because it’s not.

life isn’t convenient. the idea that a relationship can only exist in a vacuum without disturbances or distance is ludicrous. what a sad reality i was living in.

really, i think i developed this concept of friendship when i was younger, simply relying on convenient relationships because i couldn’t imagine that anyone would want to stand my company otherwise. the possibility that anyone would go out of their way to spend time with me was fantastical.

and, really, that concept was utterly wiped from my mind the past couple years, thanks to you and your uncanny ability to make others feel extraordinary.

this new veiw on friendship coupled with my need to form connections to fill a growing void in my soul has led me to being nearly a social butterfly.

i go out of my way to be with people. to forge out time to enjoy moments with people who care about you.

and i’m not talking about new friends, either. all kinds of friends...

i’m talking more and more with my internet pen pal - not just maintaining a snap streak.

i’m reconnecting with a friend from college - we have so much in common but havent talked in over a year.

i’m reaching out to friends of ours because honestly, how else are we going to get through this?

i’m making plans with my little sister, not just relying on family dinners to give us sibling time.

i’m bonding with my roommate, a friendship that wouldn’t exist had you not constantly insisted on us all hanging out.

these relationships are not convenient. but they are a necessity. these bonds and trusts and the love we all have for one another is truly how we stay alive.

and i dont think i realized how important it was.

it’s hard. i still worry that i’m annoying people sometimes. but my need for companionship has forced me to ignore such thoughts.

we need people in our lives that mean something to us, if we didn’t we wouldn’t be any different from wild beasts.

you taught me that. you taught me how to lean on people.

you taught me many things. but i think that is probably the most profound.

...

it’s raining hard outside.

i miss you.

[5-stages]

tattoos.

You got a fucking tattoo.

Not just any tattoo, you got his favorite phrase tattooed on you and publicly declared it a memorial to him.

Does it bother you that you never respected him in life?

Does it bother you that you complained about how many tattoos HE had?

Does It bother you that you teased him for his “goth” aesthetic and now you've assumed it like it was always yours?

Does it not fill you with guilt to have been horrible to him in life only to pretend to be his champion in death?

I don’t want to assume that you are not in mourning like the rest of us.

But don’t pretend to have always cared for him as much as you seem to now.

Don’t try to put down those of us that are silent.

Don't mock his memory with things that you never seemed to like about him in the first place.

If I see a post on August 15th, and only you would know what I mean, but if I see a post about that...

Don’t you dare.

[5-stages]

first kiss.

i had always imagined how our first kiss would come to happen.

i... i had always seen myself initiating it for some reason. like for some reason i never realized that you felt the same way i did about you. i always kind of thought maybe, when the moment was exactly right i’d lean in and just... kiss you. and you would somehow, miraculously, kiss me back.

but that is not what happened.

on the contrary, when you kissed me first, i had to push you away.

because you were drunk.

it happened about a week before you would leave for treatment. we had sat down and had a conversation that was somehow both awkward and natural. we informed each other of how we felt. but... the time wasn’t right, for either of us.

we decided to wait until you came back.

the a few days later we were on an art crawl. i dont know when it happened or how, exactly, but you ended up plastered.

that night, sitting on the floor of your room, you started crying.

you told me you were sorry. you told me that you loved me.

you kissed me.

and i had to push you away. because that wasn’t right for us.

i dont know if you remembered that night or not. we never spoke of it. when you came back a month later we were offical.

i regret that. not sure what i would do differently, but i regret that that is how out first kiss came to be.

i miss you, chris.

[5-stages]

the world’s end.

as any fan of modern british filmmaking knows, simon pegg is a genius when it comes to comedy. and as any serious simon pegg fan knows, the world’s end is a vastly under appreciated peice of his work.

a good movie, about five friends, on a night out, just wanting to have a good time.... until a series of events leads them to changing the course of the earth’s history, and maybe having a few drinks along the way.

or maybe, actually, a lot of drinks? because the main character is actually an alcoholic, and which is actually the driving force of the story.

i really used to like this movie. it was funny... dumb... had some decent fight scenes as well.

filled you with an odd sense of dread and foreboding at how pointless our mediocre lives are.

i liked it. made me laugh.

he liked it too. i watched it with him once, early on in our acquaintanceship. of course this was before i knew the extent of chris’s.... similarities with simon pegg’s, “gary king.”

chris made bad choices. i cannot dent that. i am not saying this made him a bad person, but he definitely made bad choices in his life.

gary king made bad choices. he had a rough time. never grew up. tried his best to never be sober, and was in and out of rehab.

chris and gary both suffered.

but until tonight, i had never noticed how similar they really were.

the alcoholism. the drugs. the self harm. the attempted recovery. the a.a. meetings. the immaturity that was endearing until it turned irresponsible.

the worry. the lying. the heart to hearts that never seemed to do any good.

the dyed black hair. the black clothes. the cigarettes. the tattoos.

but those damn doc martens.

the doc martens which are mentioned by brand are what fucking did it.

then it all hit me like a fucking truck.

and... it wasn’t funny anymore.

it was sobering.

...

i am a strong advocate for not romanticizing mental illness. though i admit, i falter at times.

alcoholism displayed as a joke instead of a serious problem.

immaturity and the inability to take ownership of ones own life is portayed in a character which is really just a lovable asshole.

cigarettes a symbol of badassery, as if being cool is a good enough reason to give yourself cancer down the road.

just a few examples of how our society romanticizes the problems that so many people suffer from. real issues that destroy people’s lives being reduced and downplayed into an hour long bit of laughs.

i never found chris’s sufferings to be funny. i knew what they did to him.

i was there the times when he cried all night, into my chest as we slept in a pile of blankets on the floor of his room, which he rented from a friend of ours. he didn’t even have a real bed because he couldn’t hold down a real job.

i was there at the emergency room, where we sat in chairs for 9 hours waiting for a room to open up so we could get him into the psych ward so he couldn’t hurt himself.

i was there in the mental hospital, where he wasn’t allowed even the drawstrings in his sweatpants, which was a problem because his struggle with anorexia meant he had to hold his pants up whenever he walked around.

i was there when he refused to go to the hospital for stitches after cutting himself with a tuna can he had dug from the garbage when he was drunk one night, because he knew the kind if comments and judgements the nurses make when self harm victims appear in the E.R.

i was there when he promised me he would stop drinking. i was there when he bruised him leg as he drunkenly tried to crawl into my car not even a week later.

i was there when he bled through the bandages in his arms. i was there when he was released from an eating disorder treatment facility for the third time.

i was there and i saw.

i know what it did to him.

...

alcoholism is not funny.

[5-stages]

the 11th.

subtle irony is like guerrilla warfare when it comes to loss.

little things that you didn’t realize held much meaning, things you didn’t see coming. and then one day, it hits you, not super hard, but it hits you.  

and it’s coincidental, but ironic. you continue on with your life. and then it hits you again. and again. every time it comes up.

for me, it’s the 11th of every month. 

on the 11th of every month, my high speed, cellular data resets. I anticipate the day that I can stop worrying about running out of data.

the irony is that, every month, when the 11th actually comes, I'm hit with the sudden realization that it’s been another full month since you died.

a get a weekly reminder on Wednesdays. 

Wednesdays have been my regular day off for months. it was also the day that we spent together, all day. 

it was also the day you died on. 

I am reminded every week. I anticipate my day off. I am blindsided by the memory.

I know one day the shock will fade, or that my plan will change and the 11th will no longer be the day my data resets, or my regular day off won’t be Wednesday anymore. but the significance of those days will never fully go away. 

I know this from experience. 

the beginning of every summer marks another year since my grandfather died.

when valentines day is preceded by the occasional Friday the 13th, I am haltingly reminded of the loss of my great aunt.

the 11th and Wednesdays will hold the same effect. 

the irony isn’t subtle at all, if I really think about it.

[5-stages]

facebook.

sometimes I wonder if other people judge me for not displaying my grief so publicly as they do.

everyday I see posts on facebook... instagram... people posting photos they have of him and writing blurbs to him. should I be doing that? it isn’t like he can see it any better there than me just speaking out to the empty air, so what’s the point? so other’s can tell how deeply hurt I am? do I need them to know?

people who I didn’t even realize were that close to him in life are posting weekly about how they miss him and can’t stop thinking about the tragedy of the world losing him. funny though, the people who I knew were truly close to him, never seem to post a thing...

I’m not claiming that I know how these people feel. but I have to wonder what motive there is behind spamming a dead person’s profile with photos and prayers, and tagging you in things that you can no longer look at. is it grieving? is it guilt? is it just them pointing out, “hey, look at me!! I care!! I’m sad!!” or is it “I’ve always cared!! this isn't my fault!!”?

there isn’t a wrong way to grieve. and in a way, I, too, am publicly posting what I am going through. but it’s for me, not anyone else. the only person who knows this exists is my little sister, who found it by me accidentally sending something to her from it (hi em). and maybe this is for others to see? I don’t know. when you google “my partner committed suicide after we broke up” you get mostly things about what to do when an abusive partner threatens suicide if you attempt to break up with them. I would have done anything for a single blog or article about someone who had actually gone through what I did. maybe I'm writing this for someone, some time in the future who is going to go through the same thing, or at least something similar. 

but this is all besides the point. 

I'd be lying of I said I didn’t feel some sense of unease when looking at the facebook posts. I feel like they are calls for attention. chris was a very special person, and I knew that. we all knew that. he was special because he had an almost supernatural ability to make other people feel like they were truly amazing... no one else knew how to make others feel good about themselves like he did. because of this I find myself wondering if the people who go on and on and on about missing him just... miss feeling special. “I knew chris so well, so I must be pretty special too.” - is what I read when I see those posts. I feel like a bad person when I think this but... it doesn’t change how I see it.

and I think, more than anything, it is because after chris died, people wouldn’t stop telling me how special I was. 

“He never stopped talking about you.” “He loved you so, so very much.” “He thought you were the brightest light he had in this life.” “Just know that he loved you more than anything.” “He loved you more than most people ever love another person.” (yes, all things that were said to me. on the day of the funeral, no less.)

so, to the people who continually post about missing him I'll ask... 

do you want to feel special? do you even know what “special” feels like? do you want to be reminded how much something is not your fault despite the fact that these people have looked at the facts and already decided that it is, indeed, your fault? and then they choose the cruelest weapon of all to punish you, kind words to remind you how you took the love of someone so devoted, and crushed it? do you truly what to be special enough to be the person that is the sole reason that this wonderful person is no longer walking among us?

because if you want to be that special person, that person who meant so much to him, then be my fucking guest.

but wait, you can’t be. because I’m already it.

and here I sit. typing anonymously instead of publicly. because if I do post something on facebook, I risk someone telling me that I didn’t really care. and yet if I don’t it looks like I don’t care at all. I'd say it’s a no-win situation but, seeing as neither option will bring him back to life, really, I'm already a loser.

I'll probably never post to facebook again anyway, I only got it because he wanted me to get one so he could tag me in stuff. I don’t know.

I miss you, chris. I just hope you know that, at least.

(I'm going to use the remaining space to add lines that people in similar situations might type, so hopefully, if they need this blog, they’ll find it.)

my girlfriend committed suicide

my boyfriend committed suicide

my partner committed suicide

my girlfriend killed herself after we broke up

my boyfriend killed himself after we broke up

my partner killed themselves after we broke up

my girlfriend killed herself and it’s my fault

my boyfriend killed himself and it’s my fault

my partner killed themselves and it’s my fault

[5-stages]

traits.

i miss the things that made you, you.

i miss your messy hair.

i miss your dumb jokes.

i miss your good jokes.

i miss your hugs and kisses.

i miss your hand in mine.

i miss your legs wrapped around mine when we cuddled.

i miss the way you put whipped cream in your coffee instead of cream and sugar.

i miss the fact that you could drink coffee while eating a salad like it was completely normal.

i miss your crazy ideas.

i miss the mustache you used to draw on with eyeliner.

i miss your tattoos.

i miss your heart.

i miss your sunshine.

i miss so many things about you.

i miss getting to express my love to you.

i miss you.

[5-stages]

responsibilities.

we visited your grave for the first time today.

they haven’t gotten the stone marker yet, but it’s coming. your mom used your deadname.

it’s what i expected. still makes me upset.

i’m not placing the blame on anyone.

i’ve placed it in myself.

i’ve placed it in your mom.

i’ve placed it on friends.

i’ve placed it on society.

but never for more than a little while because honestly i don’t believe that it is anyone’s fault.

deep down i know this tragedy is just that: a senseless and devastating tragedy.

it happened. things happen everyday.

i feel guilty about not feeling guilty. because i feel like i should feel responsible. but i can’t.

i don’t know if i truly believe it’s not my fault or if it’s just a defense mechanism to keep me from dipping too low into my depression again.

i dont know if you can see these. but i feel like even if there is just an inkling of a chance that you can see these, then i should keep reaching out to you.

it’s my responsibility to make sure that you know you are not forgotten.

it’s all our responsibility to make sure you aren’t forgotten.

i’m upset that your mother chose to have you remembered in a way that was not in line with how you viewed yourself, that does not embrace the truth if who you were.

i’m upset that “friends” on facebook would say things that defame who you were or even honor you in ways that undermine your beliefs or others you cared for.

i’m upset that people who did not know you claim to be as broken by this as those who knew you best.

i’m disappointed in myself for my lack of empathy in this situation. but it is the truth of how i feel and i cannot help that.

it is all our responsibility to make sure you are remembered as an actual human being.

i’m working on remembering you for who you truly were and not for an idea of a person who never really existed.

i’m failing.

every day my memory of you slips farther into fiction. and i feel like i’m losing my best friend and love of my life all over again.. this time slowly and torturously, instead of shockingly and all at once.

i’ve never felt greiving like this. if this is even a fraction of the pain of what you were in daily, i’m not sure how you managed to stay with us as long as you did.

i love you.

i loved you.

i will continue to love you.

it’s my responsibility to love the you that you truly were, the same as when you lived.

[5-stages]

pride.

it’s june.

a time for people like us to be proud of who we are.

i kind of had thought that we would go, together. i was so jealous of seeing you get to go last year. i wanted to be out so badly. but i wasnt so i didnt go with you.

now i’m not really out but i still don’t care who knows.

i wish we could have gotten a chance to go. i would have loved that, decked out in rainbows and shades of pink, you with all black still with touches of pastel pinks and blues.

i suppose, now, there would have been people to tell us that we didn’t belong. that i, a female, shouldnt be flaunting my rainbows whilst holding hands with my trans boyfriend. they wouldn’t have known our whole story so it wouldn’t matter what they think.

but oh, you would have told them exactly what you thought of them.

this is all hypothetical, but i imagine thats how things would go.

how they may have gone. and now this, like so manu other things, have left me yearning for what-if scenarios and half baked aspirations.

i can’t know for certain how things would have turned out. but i can dream.

i still don’t know why you did it, not for certain.

but i know a big part of the unhappiness and despair that led to the disease and disorder that you felt with such consistency was the dysphoria that came from being born into a body that you felt was not your own, from being born with inclinations and attractions that your own family insisted made you a freak.

i know you were in pain. and i hate that we’ll never get to experience being proud of who we are, together, hand in hand.

my only solace in this, is that now, wherever you are, you’re in a body that reflects who you are on the inside.

i still miss you. the emptiness will stick with me for... a very long time.

i love you, chris.

happy pride. 🏳️‍🌈