I’m angry sometimes. Most of the time. I don’t know if I’m allowed to be, but I am. I’m angry at the man who took you from me. At the universe. At myself for not being there to protect you. I wouldhave traded places with you without hesitation. Hell, I still would.
The tears flow freely, so hard I can barely see the words as I scribble them across the page.
The drinking wasn’t about you. I need to be honest—with you and myself—about that. I didn’t want to forget you, but I couldn’t handle the pain. And I think part of me believed that if I destroyed myself enough, maybe I could end up wherever you are.
The admission causes a lump to rise in my throat, and I swallow hard to choke it down.
But I’m still here. I don’t know how to build a life without you in it or even how to wake up every morning and not reach for you. I don’t know how to do that.
I only know how to miss you.
I wipe at my eyes and stare down at the blurry, uneven lines of ink.
I love you. I don’t know who I amwithout you, but I’m going to try to find out. Not because I want to move on. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over you, but throwing my life away feels like spitting on the memory of who we were.
I’m scared of what happens after the next thirty days. Terrified of walking out those doors without the structure or the guardrails. But I’m more scared of becoming the man I was in that motel room or the shell of a man I’ve been since I lost you.
I lift the photo from beside me and stare at her radiant face for a moment.
If you can hear me… If any part of you still lingers in this world… Stay with me while I figure this out.
Love Always,
Easton.
My chest is raw and flayed open when I finally lower the pen. I close the journal and press my palm against its cover. The grief isn’t gone, but giving it words makes it hurt a tiny bit less.
Dear Rosie,
It’s day thirty-seven now. I’m counting things in strange ways. Not just the days since my last drink, but the days since I started writing to you. Since I stopped pretending thinking about you was the same thing as talking to you. There’s a difference, I’m learning.
Sobriety is harder than I expected. Every day brings a different challenge.
The first thirty days felt like a physical battle, my body versus the absence of alcohol. I fought against the headaches, the sweats, shaking hands, and insomnia that made the nightsstretch endlessly. Now, my body has mostly settled, and I sleep through the night more often than not. I can hold a coffee cup without worrying the tremble of my hand will spill it, and I can sit through a meal without my stomach twisting itself into knots.
But emotionally?
It suddenly feels like someone has turned the volume all the way up.
There’s no buffer anymore or warm haze to dull the sharp edges. Waking up every day is a new reminder that you’re no longer here, with me. It’s not a thought but more of a sensation. An emptiness in the space that my body still expects to be filled. Sometimes, I reach out before I’m fully awake, and my hand meets cool sheets instead of your warmth. That split second before reality settles in is the cruelest moment of my day. For just a breath, I forget. For just a breath, I think maybe this has all been a long, terrible dream.
Then I remember.
Group sessions have gotten deeper lately. We’re not just talking about cravings anymore. We’re talking about the reasons underneath them. The shame, the fear, and the guilt. I talked about that day. How what was supposed to be one of our happiest days became the one that erased my future in one clean swipe. And then I told them about the motel room and the empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. And how that was the moment I realized I didn’t care if I drank too much and never woke up.
There was silence when I finished. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but heavy with understanding. A room full of men staring back at me who actually got it. Like they knew what rock bottom felt like. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect other people to understand the depths of my grief.
Dr. Patel says this is what I’ve been avoiding, not just the sadness, but the vulnerability. I was afraid to admit that I’m not okay, and that I wasn’t strong enough to carry this burden alone.
I still miss you so bad it hurts, but I’ve started reading your journal entries at night after I write to you. I trace the letters with my finger, like it might magically let me hear the sweet sound of your voice again. But I’m also absolutely terrified that if I let myself fully feel what missing you is like, it will swallow me. That I’ll drown in its depths without the whiskey to float me through it. But so far, I haven’t. I cry more than I ever have in my life, feeling every ounce of this ache instead of running from it. And yet, somehow, I’m still here.
I don’t know if that’s impressive or just necessary, but I’m doing it. For me, I guess. And definitely for you.
I wish you could see that I’m trying.
Dear Rosie,
Day forty-nine!
