Time Does Not Heal All Wounds

And That’s Okay

Photo from Unsplash.

It has been two years now since James* passed, a little less than two years since I found out. I’m always acutely aware of the slow creeping of June 19 into my peripheral mind as the worst day of the year approaches. Perhaps it’s melodramatic to dread a day where nothing really happened, at least not in my original knowledge of the facts, considering I didn’t find out until July 4th that he was gone. The year that he died, June 19th came and went without me knowing a thing. Then the news came, posted to Facebook 15 days later. July 4, 2019 was beyond a doubt one of the worst days of my life. My roommates had all left for Fourth of July celebrations, and I was alone in the apartment walking down the stairs when I read the fateful post saying that my friend James was dead. I vividly remember clutching the bannister for support as time seemed to slow to a halt and the room spun around me. For hours after I found out, I was caught between a paralytic state of shock, and the ludicrous idea that someone was just playing a sick joke on me.

The numbness lasted for months.

I have never known what to do in the wake of death. It was always one of those occasions where I would nod numbly, and not feel anything about it. Crying at a funeral was easy, because everyone else was crying too, and I am a constant victim of the…