You’re Never the Same after Someone You Love Dies
You’re never the same after somebody you love dies. Almost like how you’re not the same person as you were before your first big love. Something deep within you changes. And when that love wandered off, it might’ve taken a bit of your innocence with it. But death… well death takes a lot more than your innocence.
You’re never fully happy again after somebody you love dies, which is really sad for kids who experience loss when they’re young. It sounds extreme but it’s true. Of course you’ll experience happiness, belly laughs and those moments when you’re like, ‘Yes! This feeling, this is what being alive should feel like!’ And perhaps for a second you don’t remember that anything ever hurt you. That first big love never wandered off. That person is still alive.
Eventually you snap out of it. You’ll reflect on that moment of ecstasy and think, ‘God, the only thing that could have made that moment better is them. They should have been there for it.’
Memories of your first love fade with time, but grief comes back around for every holiday, every birthday, every milestone. You’re in a room full of laughter but you’ve not laughed as openly as you did before they died. You’re cracking jokes but you’re not as effortlessly funny as they were. You’re reading a book that someone recommended and it fucking sucks. It’s so poorly written that it’s comical and the person you lost would have never recommended such a shitty book. You’re saying “I do,” and of course you’re present for that moment but later on you’re in the bathroom, holding your wedding dress while you pee, alone with your thoughts and you get whacked again by grief. The only thing that could have made that moment better is them.
Nothing is the same after somebody you love dies, in fact everything is just a little bit worse. But you have to keep going. You have to tell jokes even if you’re not as funny. You have to laugh even if their impeccably-timed wit is nowhere in the room. You have to keep reading, even if it’s the same book over and over again because at least you know it’s not shitty. You get married and you cry tears of joy because you found a love that won’t wander off with any more pieces of you and even though the person you lost wasn’t there, it is still the best day of your life.
Maybe you have a baby someday. You grow a healthy human with your favorite person but even then, you’ll look into her big, beautiful blue eyes that have hardly seen anything and in your happy moment, the light still flickers. Because fuck, that person really should have been here to see this.
Years down the road you do the mental math and realize you’ve grieved them longer than you knew them. How is it possible that you’ve been half sad, half happy for so much of your life?
On my especially sad days, I look around for other sad people. They’re everywhere if you look for them. There’s so much loss. So many of us are half sad, half happy at all times. It’s important to try and lead with the happy half and to show compassion to the people who can’t.
That spark from your youth, ignited by blissful ignorance and the belief that you’re immortal, that spark is never coming back. There’s a shadow lurking behind joy and it’s waiting for its cue to interrupt. You can try to teach it manners, explain to it when and where it’s welcome, if it’s welcome at all. But grief doesn’t fade away the same as memories do.
You’re never the same after somebody you love dies. You’re softer. Or sometimes harder. You’re sadder. Sadder all the time compared to before. But that half sad thing, that whack of grief on your wedding night, the lurking shadow that has a habit of letting itself in without permission, that’s love too. It’s a pretty bleak form of love, but it’s the only kind you have left between you and that person who really should still be here.
