Dear diary,

It’s been a while since I’ve written to you. I haven’t had anything new to write about, other than the same stuff that goes on day by day. Same line, different song.

My main purpose of this entry isn’t to complain about my parents idiocy. Not this time anyway. September is here, the month I’ve been dreading since it ended last year. And how much I do dread this month.

My words probably won’t be as flowing and smart this go around. People are probably so sick of hearing about this, so I have no one to talk to about it. People will listen, surely, but it’s almost certain I’ll get an eye roll and a smirk. After all, it has been another year.

I can no longer say I feel the same way I did as the time it happened. I don’t. I don’t know how I feel honestly. The feeling I is numbness. The numbness is a combination of sadness, loneliness, anger, and depression. I have a million feelings about it, but that pretty much sums it up.

No matter who I talk to about the way I feel, everyone seems to get annoyed, angry, or they simply don’t know what to say. Most people are so sick of hearing it, they’ll give me an eye roll or a smirk, or my personal favorite, “It’s been four years, it’s time to move on with your life”

But how CAN I move on with my life, as if nothing happened, or as if she were still here? A lot of times I just shrug my feelings off like I’m trying to find a reason to be sad.  It’s not that, because I genuinely am depressed. A smile on my face doesn’t mean anything. A laugh is to cover up how I truly feel. Story of my life, but somehow with this it’s different. Extremely different.

All through September, starting from day one, I have a terrifying feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away no matter how hard I try to make it stop. It’s like some kind of force alters my body until the end of the month. I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to sleep. All I want to do is sit up late at night and stare at her picture, the one photo of her I have. This happens almost every night. I stare at that same picture for sometimes hours at a time. Wishing, hoping, remembering.

I wish for her back. I hope she really is “in a better place.” I remember who she was, what she stood for. I also remember her smile, her laugh, how her eyes lit up when she was happy.

But then I remember, more than anything, seeing her in pain. Seeing her in her permanent bed, her casket. Those are the haunting things that I remember the most. Those images play through my mind like an old projector on a wall. Flashbacks. Seeing her laying in her hospital bed, IV’s in her arm, tubes winding up and down, in and out, of her throat and nose. I see her eyes looking aimlessly around the room. I see her skin turning colors from lack of circulation. Then I see, like it was yesterday, standing outside the funeral home. I see myself breaking down and having to be carried to a chair because I’m in too much shock to stand up. I see myself gently placing a flower in her hand, before having to be escorted out because I didn’t want to leave her side.

Don’t get me wrong, I do see the good memories. I see myself sitting on her lap. I remember Christmases and holidays and birthdays. I remember the old house, the new house. I remember the stupid family arguments. I remember her hugs, her kisses. I remember how as I got older, when I started wearing makeup and trying to be pretty, and through many failed attempts, she would be there to say “Sarah Nic, you look beautiful”

Time slowly marched on, I got older but not wiser. I came around less, we grew apart. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly. I was invited to her grand daughter’s (my cousin) birthday party. I passed, for some reason I myself am unsure of. That’s the day it happened. She had a brain aneurysm and collapsed. They rushed her to the hospital, where she spent a little over a month, before they finally pulled the plug.

A couple nights before, they told me what they were going to do. They told me they didn’t want her suffering. I broke down. I simply didn’t care. I wanted my Aunt Shirley. I needed my Aunt Shirley. I was in school when they did it. I remember walking up the stairs and getting a feeling in my stomach. I knew. I went home, and sure enough, that’s what happened. My mom was crying, she told me. I sat on the bed and didn’t cry. You know what I asked? I asked her if I could go to a fucking football game that night. I didn’t cry all weekend.

I feel immense guilt when it comes to my aunt. I don’t feel guilty over reacting the way I did when I found out she had passed. It hadn’t became clear in that moment, I didn’t think it was real. I don’t feel guilt over that. I feel guilty for taking what I had with her for granted. I didn’t cherish the time we spent together as much as I should have. She was so precious to me, no one will ever understand. She raised me, she was more of a mother to me than my own mom is. She always treated me like I was her daughter. She loved me as I was her own. She loved spending time with me, she cherished it. But I didn’t, and now I have to face the aftermath.

My aunt always expected the best from me. She loved me for who I was, one of the few people I have ever been able to say that about. She always encouraged me to the fullest, no matter what crazy situation I was getting myself into. She’d always tell me to go for it. But now, I wonder what she would think of me.

With tears flowing down at full force, coming two and three at a time, I will tell you, diary, I don’t think my aunt would be very proud of me. If she were to see the things I’ve done, what I’ve become, she would be less than proud. I’ve hurt myself, and I mean that in black and white terms. I have hurt myself in more ways than one. I have hurt everyone around me in more ways than one. She wouldn’t have me basking in glory, let me tell you that much. She would be so disappointed, and that makes me cry more than anything.

But I know if she was here, she wouldn’t yell and scream and point out my faults. She would help me, like she always did. She would wipe my tears and tell me not to cry over her, to get on with life. But that’s so hard to do when all I have to do is imagine her in pain. It brings me right back to my knees.

I can’t even be around my family. I break down in front  of any of them (on her side). On my mother’s side, I’ve changed too. I don’t go to Christmas Eve dinner anymore. I try my hardest not to get too close to anyone. Last Christmas Eve I sat in bed, in the dark, crying until five in the morning. All holidays are like that. On my birthday, I cry. At prom, I was so overwhelmed by the fact that she couldn’t be there to see me all dressed up, I cried. I cried in the back seat of my friend’s car, sobbing off all my pretty professionally-done makeup. What I wouldn’t have given for her to be there, for me to hear her say “Sarah Nic, you look beautiful” with tears in her beautiful eyes. I lied and said the reason I cried all night was because I messed up my $300 dress. No, it was because I wanted to cry in my aunt’s arms.

I try my best to keep my aunt’s memory alive the best way I can. When I look at a flower, I see my aunt. When I look up at the sky, I imagine she’s there looking down upon me. When it rains, I think she’s crying with me…

It's also really difficult when you can't mourn in your own house, in your own parents' presence. They get mad, yell, go off on me. That's not easy to deal with considering I'm already a bucket full of wish wash emotions that I can't control. They get mad at me for crying. It's not my fault I want to live in the past.

September is the month when all this comes crashing down on me at once. I think about her more than I should. I do things I shouldn’t. But this year it’s different.

This year, I’ve made promises. Promises that I might not be able to keep. That scares me, because these promises are huge ones. These promises are not to do the things I’ve relied so heavily on to get me through the years. The person I’ve made these promises to would be very hurt and disappointed, just like my aunt would be. In some ways it’s like I made promises to her, but she’s not here, so I’m snapped back in to reality. I’m going to try my hardest to keep my word. I’ll die to keep my word to this particular person, but it’s hard for me to even get out of bed during September. Will I be able to keep the ribbons tied on my fingers and remember that I gave her my word? Or will I, like every year, crumble under my own twisted thoughts?

September will be the month that tests all friendships. Even more so, if will be the month to test one’s self control.
So diary, September 30th is the day. September 30th is the 4th year that she will have been gone forever. What will that day bring? What will that month bring? I wish I knew myself.