In 2 days I go to the doctor. The one you always communicated with. I went 4 weeks ago, 4 days after you left earth, and she immediately tried to push another dietitian on me. She didn’t get it. She didn’t know you like I do. She didn’t understand that no one can replace you like that. No one can replace your care, ever. I left and cried in the car.
I don’t think I’ve lost any weight since you passed, but I’ve gone to bed hungry multiple times. I’m hungry now, about to go to bed, but I just can’t do it tonight. I’ve gone to bed nauseous because I miss you so much. I’ve lost way too much sleep and can’t keep myself hydrated enough to keep up with all the tears that come, as if I’m a broken faucet. I feel like I should have lost weight because I am physically drained and emotionally distraught. I feel like I do when anorexia consumes me. I panic at night when it’s quiet and there isn’t anything else I can distract my thoughts with. I panic that I cannot do this without you. I panic that what happened to you will happen to other people I love. I panic that I need you–you’re the only one that gets me in a very specific, amazing, life-saving way.
I am broken. Broken-hearted, but it also seems like my brain is broken, too. That things aren’t working because I can’t stop searching for you. That reality and denial are overlapping in odd ways that makes my world seem out of control, confusing, and fuzzy.
I don’t know how to fix this. The hope I have, the hope that pulls me out of bed in the morning, is notably fragile. I’m fearful I will never be understood like you understood me–that my story is buried with you forever. That rips at my soul. It brings relentless tears and unwavering sorrow.
I need you to be with me. I need you to find me and hold me. I need you to hold space for this unbearable hurt that seems to be only getting worse.
Please, God, bring her back. Please.