Grief Diaries 004

At a dinner with strangers earlier this year, our host gave us a series of questions to answer at the table as a way to get to know each other beyond surface level introductions. With a mischievous grin our host asked us, “What would you say to your ex if they walked through the door right now?”. I lost my breath and held back my tears as people gave their answers one by one around the table. Luckily I was last but that also gave me enough time to think over my answer again and again. As the person to my right finished, everyone’s eyes turned to me and I began to cry. Excruciatingly painful seconds ticked by while I tried to regain my composure enough to speak.

“I would say, ‘I love you’”

Entry 86

He feels like an imaginary friend that I have at times. An angel on my shoulder. A voice inside my head that’s not my own. His ethereal existence is shaped by my memories of him, both the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’. What would he think? I must tell him about that. Why didn’t he take his mental health more seriously? He would laugh at that with me. Is he proud of me?

It’s a brutal kind of pain to never be able to speak to someone again, to not have the option. Even in cases of cut contact with someone who’s still alive, however strained and impossible that reunion may seem, the event of talking to them again is still in the realm of possibilities. When someone dies, that option is no longer available and you are left having one-sided conversations in your head, notebook, or even outloud.

It’s really hit me this week that I’ll never be able to speak to Ben ever again. There are so many things I want to tell him. There are jokes I want to tell that only he would get. I want to make new memories with him, not just replay the ones I have on repeat. I want to hear him get excited about things that don’t excite me but in hearing his excitement it transfers to me. I want to share a flask of tea with him by the sea and admire the sky; our only communication exchanging smiles and knowing looks of pure contentment in that moment.

I feel better equipped to help support him now that I understand what was going on inside him, but I also recognise that his illness still might’ve won in the end. I want to believe that he’d accept treatment and in doing so it wouldn’t strip him of the brilliant person he was.

I don’t often talk out loud to Ben but when I do it’s when I’m in pure agony. I’ve laid in hotel beds alone, sat behind the steering wheel of an empty car, and curled up on the kitchen floor repeating ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’ until I have no tears left.

Entry 43

I love you, I always loved you. Even when I was hurt by you and tried to move on, I locked away my love for you inside me. I still lock it away sometimes when feeling it is too much for me. But it's always there. Always.