Grief is a heavy garment

Joseph, The Only Man Who Loved Me Back

The world lost its color when you did, Joseph. The simple, necessary acts of living—they feel like performances I’ve been forced to cancel. What is the point of scrubbing away the tired dirt of the day when the dirt on my soul feels permanent? A shower, a bath, a glance in the mirror—they are all redundant motions now. I can go weeks, months, sliding through the days in the same worn-out apathy, looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger who simply doesn't care. The caring died with you.

Grief is a heavy garment, and lately, it is the only thing I wear.

It has been hard. Monumentally hard. I know I promised to be strong, and I am fighting, not with the strength I possess, but with the strength I borrow. You’d be proud to know I fight this monstrous sadness on my knees, the worn leather of my Bible pressed against my palm. I cling to the verses, seeking that small, flickering light of relief. Each day I get through is a minor victory, a shallow exhale. I tell myself it doesn't get easier, it gets harder, but I must simply get stronger. One day at a time, I gather the broken shards of my resolve.

But the broken shards still cut.

The holidays are insults. The silence on your birthday is a form of exquisite torture. Every milestone missed, every future event we planned that is now void because you are dead, is killing me slowly. They told me time heals. Time is merely confirming your absence.

Yet, Joseph, I keep going because I remember why I started to live again when I met you.

Life finally felt like it was tilting toward joy. For the first time, I felt safe enough to be truly seen. I laid out every piece of myself for you—not just the light, but the shadows, the jagged edges, the secrets hidden so dark I thought they’d follow me to the grave. I laid them down like offerings, waiting for the inevitable recoil, the judgment, the departure.

But you didn't flinch. You didn't run.

You just folded my darkness into your light and held me tighter. You told me the words that became the anchor of my existence: "I am going to love you past your pain."

And you did. You loved me past my pain, past my history, and past the crippling fear that defined me. You were the only human man who ever truly loved me back.

Right now, the heavy, churning pain from missing you feels like it’s going to win. It whispers exhaustion, urging me to just put down the Bible and stop trying.

But I made a promise to the memory of the man who saved me, and I will not break it. Joseph, I promise I will continue to try.

You will not die. I won’t allow it. I will keep your memory alive by speaking your name, by sharing the absurd joy and deep comfort you brought me. I will remember the sound of your laugh, the way you looked at me when I told you the worst of myself, and the quiet devotion in your eyes. I will never forget you. I will never let go. I will continue to share our memories forever, until that day I finally lose this fight and find my way home to the only man that loved me back.