Anatomy

Anatomy of a Loss

The first rule of anatomy is that you must understand what you're looking at before you make any cuts.

I suppose that's why I've avoided this particular dissection for so long. I'm writing now as if each word is a scalpel, each sentence part of a long, deep incision I'm making across a scar that never really healed.

This is about her, my best friend, my other half. 

She was a force of nature, unstoppable and alive in every way I was not.

People say grief is like waves, that it hits you hard at first, then retreats, then comes back stronger. That's what it was like when she was gone. 

After the funeral, I went through her things, shuffling through her old books, her endless collection of band t-shirts, the ticket stubs and souvenirs she saved from every concert we'd ever gone to. I'd sit in her room, clutching these fragments of her existence, hoping they'd bring her back, but all they gave me was this crushing realization that she was never coming home.

We weren't like other best friends. She knew things about me nobody else did. She was the first person I ever told about the strange attraction I had to both girls and guys, this thing I couldn't explain or define. 

We laughed about it in that cramped coffee shop that smelled like burnt espresso and patchouli. 

"You're bi, babe," she had declared, brushing it off like it was the most natural thing in the world. She wasn't shocked or disgusted. 

She just... understood. I was safe with her in a way I haven't been with anyone since.

Sometimes I wonder if she would have been able to see the danger in him.

Maybe she would have seen the signs that I'd missed, the tiny red flags I ignored out of desperation to feel something other than her absence. 

It was just a night out, a random party, a few drinks. Nothing big, or at least, that's what I told myself. But I know now that I was reckless, that my blurred mind had dulled the warning bells, and I let myself be vulnerable with someone who didn't have my best intentions at heart. That night stole pieces of me I can never get back, fragments of innocence I can only describe as a hollowed-out silence inside of me.

The thing about trauma is it doesn't happen all at once. It layers, like thin sheets of paper, stacking up until you feel the weight of a thousand burdens on your chest, too heavy to carry but impossible to let go.

Therapy is supposed to help, but some days it feels like talking about it makes it worse. I start the story and it's like ripping off a bandage, exposing the wound all over again, and I end up spending the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, running through every detail of that night. Every step that led me to the moment I realized I wasn't safe, that I'd never be the same.

That the girl who loved band tees, late-night book discussions, and history lectures was fading into someone I barely recognized.