12/21/22

It’s a balancing act. If I avoid my feelings, they build up like a kind of poison, invading my chest until everything hurts. Until even speaking feels impossible, the timer officially out on holding back sobs. But if I live in the pain, if I fully acknowledge it, if I allow it to take over, how can I possibly stay alive?

Since you died, I haven’t given into my vices. I cut myself only once, have managed to not restrict my food, haven’t touched alcohol, drugs, or engaged in reckless sex. I’ve been good. There were the midnight runs, 6 miles worth of fate tempting footprints, but they stopped in October, living dangerously no longer as seductive as before.

If there’s one thing I won’t do in these letters, it’s lie. Half a year later, I still want to die. How could I not? I relied on you for everything. 29 years of being tied at the hip. In some ways, I’m a toddler again, learning how to walk.

Writing is cathartic, but it’s also not. How could simply articulating my feelings make me feel better?

I try not to wallow. I enjoy my life, am aware of how valuable it is. Life. The very thing that was stripped from you.

There’s Christmas music playing. Do I let myself enjoy it, or do I make space for the sadness that permeates, Christmas a holiday that was synonymous with your generosity, a holiday you will forever be absent from.

Last Christmas you got Dad shoes that were essentially stuffed pandas, and we laughed as he walked around the house, taking pictures of your serious, brilliant Beary wearing what were basically teddy bears. I’d developed an enormous crush on Julianna Margulies after watching Season 2 of The Morning Show, and you hunted far and wide to find an exact replica of the cartilage hoop she wore all season, leaving it on the sofa for me to discover come Christmas morning. I was 28, Lucas 23, but you still went through the trouble of playing Santa, picking presents that were perfect for whoever we decided to be that year. You got gifts for everyone who came into our orbit, packing them so thoughtfully, everything you did a work of art.

How could anyone ever fill your shoes? How could life steal the most crucial piece of our puzzle? Your beauty is unparalleled, your heart like no other, your emotional intelligence something I both relied on and took for granted.

It’s unbearably lonely here without you. I still can’t respond when people ask “How are you?”, perpetually resentful of the question.

How can I be anything when you stopped breathing long ago?