Enough time has gone by for me to realize one thing; losing Boston will always be ugly. There is no way to ignore it, no way to escape it, no way to dress it up to make it feel better nor look better. It will always be the ugliest part of my life and myself. His death will always be debilitating, some hours, days, months, and years will be worse than others, but I am stuck with this nightmare until my last breath.
Losing him cost me my mental health. I think that's one of the worst parts. So many people don't understand that mental illnesses are just as serious as physical. I'm assuming this sad fact stems from people's lack of understanding for what they cannot see. I honestly could have never grasped the severity had I not all the sudden been plagued with them. I just hope anyone who reads this that questions how real anxiety, depression, and post traumatic stress really are can find a minute to think about how that makes the struggle harder. I suffer from and struggle with all and it is one of the most terribly frustrating things I've ever come to know. Before Boston left I never thought twice about entering a gas station or grocery store, now it takes me a couple hours to reluctantly prepare myself and sometimes that's not enough. There's still times I run out feeling like I must be in the midst of dying myself, and there's still times I can't get myself to even walk through the door in the first place. It's embarrassing as a grown woman to burst into tears in public, let alone try to explain why.
Each time I get ready for work at some point a fit of rage consumes me, and it's the nasty kind. Throwing things, maybe a hole or two in the wall. I've never been that type and it's a scary feeling to completely lose control of my emotions and have no clue how to make it stop.
I'm thankful for the few people in my life who have stuck by my side through it all. It's unfortunate but true that loving me is no walk in the park and I pray the amazing souls that still do know that I am trying...
Im here, just in the throws of figuring out how to function with such an ugly reality always looming over my head...
No Boston. No happy voices filling my home. No fairy god parents or a genie in a bottle to magically fix the pitiful mess my life has become. Just me, a box of memories, enough fear and anxiety to last a million lifetimes, and an urn that holds whats left of the little boy who stole my heart and took it to the other side of heaven.
I love you, Bosty. Every minute of every day I am dreaming of the glorious moment I get to hold you and tell you that.
