How Has It Been A Year Already?!

25th June 2019

To those who are no longer with me, 

For one of you, it has been a year and three days since you left me. No, you didn't leave me, you didn't go by choice. It has been one year and three days since you were taken from me. It appears to me that, the older I get, the harder it is for me to get over a death. Now, we all know that moving on from losing someone we love is hard and, at first, we are so reluctant to do so, however, when I was younger, of course it hurt like hell, but for some reason it was also easier to brush off. 

This past year I have found myself on many occasions crying unexpectedly, for seemingly no reason at all. The best reasoning, I have ever seen for this, and this is where I need you to forgive me because I have no idea who said this originally but, grief is like a button, inside a box which plays host to a giant ball. This ball is so giant that it is constantly pressing on that button, triggering your never-ending grief that is so real and raw when you first lose someone. Over time however, the ball shrinks and begins to be able to move within the box. At first it is still fairly large, so it still hits the button an awful lot but that is better than it being continuously pressed against it. This continues as the ball decreases in size and it starts to catch the button less and less, until eventually the ball is so small you think that it is never going to be able to hit that button again. Oh, how wrong you were, out of nowhere, in a stroke of luck, in the middle of the crisp aisle in your local supermarket, the ball manages to hit that grief button, and you cry. 

Maybe that is why they describe grief as coming in waves. It is very wave like after all. 

I really do not know how I have gotten through this past year without crying more. When it comes to you, I am angry. Not at you, no, never at you. I'm angry that you didn't get the send-off you deserved. In December, mum, my sister and I attended a funeral of an old friend, and I was fine. I was fine right up until I started thinking about you. When I sat there in that crematorium and thought about how this is what your funeral should have looked like. When I thought about how your funeral should have contained music, the specific piece of music mum wanted. About how, because of one extended family member you got less than you deserved, and I started to cry. 

At first, I was sad. This is what your funeral should have looked like. Then I was angry. This is what your funeral should have looked like. The I was jealous. This is what your funeral should have looked like. Instead, your funeral was a hand full of friend and family gathered round your grave for a graveside service with no music and a reading of a poem I wrote but no-one heard because someone else was making a fuss. 

I think about this all the time. Whenever I think about you, I think about this and I get mad and angry that you got less than you deserved. Then I get mad and angry about being mad and angry when I'm thinking about you and then I cry. Then I cry even more because I'm crying about being mad and angry about being mad and angry and, my head hurts. This version of grief, the grief that surrounds you is toxic and I don't know how to shake it off, because you, you are not toxic, not at all. 

You said and wrote my name wrong. You called me Kim. You would call for one thing and still be on the phone with me fifteen minutes later, which was a long time for you. You would give me sweets and chocolate and pocket money and tell me not to tell anyone. You always loved whatever I bought you. You wore my earrings to the grave. 

You were you and I miss you. I miss you like crazy. I think of you and I get sad. I think of you and I regret not seeing you more. I think of you and I am reminded of how I was coming to see you that day. I think of you and I am in excruciating pain, but I don't care, because, after-all, I'm thinking of you. 

So, that is what you've missed.
Love, always

Tiffany Jade 

Xo.