The moment she slipped from concious thought, the minute her breath escaped her, the hour her pain was magically gone, the horrific moment when the machines no longer showed a pulse, no revive possible, the second my earth was completly and utterly shattered, was the moment the emptiness in every event was evident in the core of my being. How the fuck does that happened. How the fuck is she just GONE. How is she now resting in a BOX. Nothing but ashes. These questions, the answers will never justify it. Its not fair. I’m not okay. I will never be ok. How can I be okay when the one person I need the most is gone.
“You know, after she died everybody told me that I was going to be okay. That it would take a little time but I’d heal. That didn’t really happen. Not really. What you are feeling right now, Amy. It doesn’t ever really go away. Not completely. It’s not like you’re going to, you know, you’re going back to be the person you were like before they died. The person’s gone. It’s more like something inside of you breaks and your body finds a way to compensate for it. Like, if you busted your right hand, you figure out how to use the left one & sure, you might resist for a while because you get pissed off but you have to learn all this stuff again that no one else does. Eventually your body takes over & it figures it out for you & you’re glad. Because if it were up to you, you, you’d just … look at your busted hand forever. Trying to figure out what it was like before.”—Everwood