They say time heals. They lie.

Time simply brings about the fog of forgetfulness, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain of  cherished memories past, blurring the clarity of moments long gone. It’s the human condition. It’s how we survive. Could you imagine a universe where every hurt done to you emotionally or physically remained at the same amplitude as the time it first occurred? It would drive even the best of us mad. And I am not the best of us.

What I describe above is the normal and healthy response of someone who wants to move forward, who wants to step into a brighter future, celebrating the chapter in their life you were part of, not mourning the end of your story.

I took a different route. Not the bottle, not violence, not self-sabotage in any traditional sense. I simply withdrew inwards, letting the walls surround me. After all, if I hid behind a minefield, nobody could hurt me again, right? At the time, I didn’t see the obvious flaw in this tactic. It also has kept most people out. I used to rationalize this by saying they simply weren’t worth my time if they gave up so soon, but the deeper realization is that I continually set an unachievable expectation for those that truly did want in. I’m amazed she’s still around if I’m being totally honest. I realized long ago I’ve never deserved her love. It’s a simple fact of gratitude in my daily life. She’s the most incredible part of my everything.

Anyway, all of this is to say I still miss you. I ugly cry if I allow myself to walk through the bliss of our time together. I can pull up those emotions as intensely as the day you died. You will forever be a part of me, no matter what pieces and details I may one day forget. You were my boy. You were my heart. Every moment from when we first brought you home, to holding you as you took your last breath.

It’s been 11 years. You are loved.