The first year was absolutely unbearable. Every time I saw or heard your name, I fell apart. I couldn’t listen to music without my throat swelling up. The aching pain in my heart was constant. Everything reminded me of you. I thought drinking heavily with my anti-anxiety medication would help me cope. It didn’t. I don’t remember much. It was all a blur of careless laughter followed by intense moments of sobbing and self-harm.
The second year, it started getting slightly better. I taught myself how to play our favorite song even though I knew you’d never hear me play it. I quit using anti-anxiety meds and hard liquor. I still had days when I refused to believe I would never see or touch you again, but I was starting to grow accustomed to letting go. I had a lot of dreams about you. They began turning into nightmares as my brain finally allowed itself to process and accept how toxic we were for each other in the end.
The third year, I still have dreams about you. I forget most of them, but the ones I remember make me think and dream about you for a week straight. I’ll think of an inside joke sometimes and just laugh while shaking my head. I don’t feel like dying anymore when I hear your name, our songs, or when I see our favorite movies on TV. I still wish you a happy birthday even though you’ll never hear it or realize I even remembered or cared.
I’m finally accepting you’ll always be a part of me, so I’d better stop hurting myself over it and move on.
— My healing process