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The psychologist asks me how I’m doing today on a scale of 1 to 10
I ask her how to grade the feeling of absolute shit
She tells me to put a number on the level of shit I feel
All I can do is pinch my leg
And hope that I don’t start laughing

They say you go through five different stages in grieving. Five different stages to get you through the loss of something that has ever meant anything to you. It can also be five different stages to getting you through the fact that one of your closest friends has been in an accident and will live and be alright but it will take time. This is my healing process.

The first week you were gone I didn’t even notice. I went about life as normal. I called your phone a few times a day and heard your voice on the answering machine telling me you were busy. You were busy a lot that week.  

The second week you were gone I started to throw things and blame around me. Not once did you return my phone calls. Not once did you reply my text messages. They all went unread. I started to notice that you weren’t around. And my eyes were always red. I talked to people with capitalized letters. Big shouty capitalized letters.  And told myself that I didn’t miss you.

The third week you were gone I kept thinking if I had just offered you a bed to sleep in that night that you would still be here. That you would be sitting in the classroom with a cup of coffee and a smile. That you would be franticly keeping notes and trying to keep up with the teachers words. That you would be asking questions and stating obvious facts. I never thought that I would miss the way you talked about your shoe-selling job and how proud you were of it. But you aren’t and I do. And your absence is no longer unnoticed.

The forth week you were gone I did not once leave my bed. I hide underneath my blanket hoping it would drown out all sounds of my silenced phone. I kept thinking of everything you were missing out on and that made me not want to participate in everyday life since you couldn’t either. It didn’t seem fair and all things lost purpose. Why should I care about the way my jeans match my t-shirt or if my hair looks dirty? What does it matter when you are in the hospital with a monitor keeping notes of your heart and a machine that’s breathing for you? How can all those small things matter when you’re going through that? It all just seems so stupid. So I’d rather just stay in my bed. And continue to miss you.

The fifth week you were gone I knew that I would see you soon and that everything would be alright. You would want me to enjoy life just so that I could tell you about it later on. You would want to hear all about it. And so that means I actually have to make an effort so that I have something to tell you when you wake up and when you get back. Because you will be back. And we can all tell you that you were, in fact, missed.