What do you say when you have nothing to say, or, f*ckin’ grief, you know?

I don’t know that I have anything new or interesting to say about grief. 

That’s how you start journaling about something that you don’t know what to say about. 

Sometimes it starts with “I don’t know if I have anything to say.” 

Sometimes all we know is that we’re feeling or experiencing a thing…but we may not even be clear what we’re feeling or experiencing. 

I’m experiencing what the culture calls “grief.” 

Someone I love died. 

We’d been in a romantic relationship when we were both about 19 to 20. It was a long time ago, and we’d both moved on, romantically and in our lives. We were on good terms, and we messaged every few weeks or months, usually when something out in the world reminded us of inside jokes we shared. 

Now those inside jokes only live on the inside of my head and heart. 

Trauma and addiction recovery generally involve a lot of loss. A lot of grieving. 

In trauma and addiction recovery we lose a version of ourselves. We may lose it on purpose— we may actually set out to “lose” that version of us— but it’s still a loss. 

In trauma and addiction recovery there is plenty of grieving. Specifically grieving the life we should have had, with the people we should have had it with. 

Heather knew me at a time when I was very, very depressed. 

She was one of the main reasons I was not at greater risk of ending my life during that time. 

When you’re 19 or 20, you think you know what the rest of life is going to look like. I guess we always think we know what the rest of life is going to look like, at any age. 

But we don’t. 

Many people reading this know what it is to lose someone special to them. Death is more than an abstraction for many people reading this. 

When we lose certain people we lose a little piece of ourselves. 

There were little jokes and stories and songs that only Heather and I got. Now I have my memories of them— but I’m the only person on the planet who has those memories. 

Did Heather know that she played a part in saving me once upon a time? 

I don’t know. 

In my line of work, we talk about the future a lot, especially as it pertains to the idea of “hope.” Very often mental health providers throw a lot of energy at convincing their clients that tomorrow can, will, be better— that there is reason for hope. 

I think there are a LOT of reasons to believe that we can meaningfully change our lives. I’ve seen it happen over and over again. 

But it’s also the case that at a certain time we run out of tomorrows. 

Heather was my age. In the grand scheme, we’re relatively young. Not as young as we were, but not as old as we would be. 

Not as old as we were supposed to get. 

Turns out I knew and loved Heather at about the midpoint of her life. 

That’s not f*cking fair. 

But I don’t get to make the rules. 

I don’t even get to make the rules about how much time I have, let alone how much time anybody else has. 

It had been years since Heather and I said “I love you” to each other in a romantic sense, and at least months since we said it in a platonic sense. 

But I would have gladly given her any, or all, of my tomorrows. 

My days are spent trying to support the most courageous people I ever get to meet, my patients, to improve their lives in realistic, sustainable baby steps. 

I never, ever want them to take their tomorrows for granted— or to believe that their tomorrows don’t matter. 

Your tomorrows matter. 

You matter. 

I don’t write that lightly or flippantly. 

You f*cking matter. 

Don’t ever doubt it. Don’t ever let anyone convince you you don’t. 

Goodbye, baby.