I remember. Everything.
I know what pain is.
Extreme Heartache.
The type where you know the person you miss is never coming back.
It’s unfair.
But I learnt to accept that’s the way of life.
That’s okay. Even when it’s really not okay. At all.
My strength was tested that day. Not knowing what and how to face it.
I found out the news — and every day since then.
I’ve questioned myself.
Questioned the meaning of life.
Questioned my own mortality.
It was then my strength dipped down low, but it never abandoned me. I got anxious. Sacred. somewhere I found strength. If it hadnt, then I’d no longer be here.
But I am. Breathing.
Death has made me strong, because I’m still alive, even though my loved one is gone.
Because I’ve dealt with the worst possible circumstances and persisted. I keep persisting.
Grieving relatives. Funeral arrangements. If-there’s-Anything-I-can-do texts and hugs. So many hugs.
I have gotten through the toughest times, times when I’d wished I could disappear — but I still have the ability to smile.
To laugh. To enjoy life.
Tears don’t make me weak. They make me strong. They make me a survivor.
