you are the ocean, and I am broken.

I am overwhelmed.

I am broken.

I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know how to convey my thoughts into a coherent sentence.

I am on auto pilot.

I am broken.

I am broken.

I am broken.

I want to write a post. I do, I really do. But my brain is numb, and yet it spins at a million miles an hour with endless thoughts. Memories that perpetually flow at all seconds of the day. Trying to figure out what went wrong and where it went wrong and how it could’ve been fixed. But honestly, it couldn’t have been fixed. I tried with all that I could.

But you slipped away. You no longer exist on this planet.

I’m going to cry. I won’t stop. The tears will always come. I can swallow the pain as much as possible but I can’t fight these tears anymore. I can’t breathe.

Everyone dies. Everyone knows this. Why is it so hard to accept? Why is it so hard to conceive this notion that we will vanish from this reality one day? Why can’t we grasp it?

I knew the moment would come, sooner rather than later. I had already been going through the stages of grief while you were still alive. You died long ago, but finally your body just gave up, too.

If everyone dies, and we all know that, why does it still hurt so badly? When we die, where do we go? Will we ever really know? It’s the unknown that scares us so much. It scares me, at least. I guess I can’t speak for everybody.

(I’ve had to stop several times already to cry while writing this.)

It’s so hard to write because I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to tell you, reader. You won’t understand this indescribable pain unless you’ve lost your mother. Or your father. Or someone who loved and cared so deeply for you endlessly and selflessly. The one that brought me into this world… is gone.

I will never hear her voice again, except in this voicemail she left me on my birthday last year. I will never look at her again with my aging eyes, except in photographs.

Alcohol stole you away from me. It stole you long ago though. I didn’t want to believe my own thoughts and what played out before my eyes. I wanted you to get past it. I wanted you to get better. I believed in you, I didn’t want to give up. But you gave up on yourself. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing anyone could do to bring you back from that place of defeat.

You had this life before me, and I desperately wish I could relive every moment in time with you. I would sit here and watch your life as if it were a movie. Why isn’t that a thing already? Why can’t we do that? I wish science would finally figure that one out. All I can do is put together my own stories when I look at your pictures, or relive your life through what your friends and family tell me. I have only my experiences with you. Much were bad, but there was good too.

It seems as though the toxicity that infected me through my life with you has dissipated. I acknowledge it, I know it happened, I remember it happening. But suddenly, it doesn’t mean anything anymore. All of it doesn’t cause me pain anymore. Your absence… that is a new pain I must face and accept every day.

You died on January 19, 2020. I still don’t know the exact cause of death because the official autopsy report hasn’t come back yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of what the actual cause of your death was. Whatever it could’ve been, alcohol was part of that.

You’re going to miss so many things, big and small. I’m almost 30, and you’re going to miss all of what’s to come. You won’t see me get married (if that ever happens), you won’t see me finally choose a career path and stick with it, you won’t hear me talk about my day, you won’t call or text me anymore, you won’t see ME anymore.

I am truly an empty shell of whatever I used to be. I am not living, I’m just here in the world. It hasn’t even been 2 months and I feel completely and utterly lifeless. Not like you- not actually dead. But I’m not alive, either.

I have nothing left. You took a chunk of my heart and soul with you when you went away. Part of me died, too. I have nothing left to give anyone. I can only hope and pray that one day that light will return.

I scattered you into the ocean. It’s what you wanted. It always seemed so far away, like it was never going to really happen. But as I sat in that boat with family and friends, it was real. I felt the warm sun on my face and the gusty breeze around me. I clutched the box that held your ashes tightly. I cried. My sister and I freed you into what encompassed you your whole life- the ocean. You are the ocean.

Nobody is ever ready to say goodbye, but I wish we could’ve held off from that goodbye just a bit longer.

This is only the beginning. The grief… oh, the grief. It’s nothing I could ever fathom or compare it to. This is my reality now. I’m swallowed up in this entity that I can’t describe. You don’t know, you can’t possibly know this pain, reader. You can’t and won’t know until it happens to you.

I can’t write anymore tonight. My heart is breaking again and I’m tired of wiping my eyes. I just got my keyboard fixed, I don’t want to break it again with my tears.




This will never end.




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These are the musings of a 32 y/o dreamer, wisher and doer. All my posts are authentic; I write what's in my heart.

3 thoughts on “you are the ocean, and I am broken.

  1. Wow. This is so raw and courageous. I am so sorry for your loss. Keep putting one foot in front of the other while you grieve, and one word after another. Let your writing be the vehicle for your emotions, it really helps. And you won’t always be broken. x

    Liked by 1 person

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