Cussing, Crying, and Coping

Those Were Actual Days?

Honestly. How the fuck did that happen?
I blinked and two days disappeared. I was awake. I was breathing. I think. But I can’t tell you what I ate, if I ate, or whether I cried, screamed, or just stared at walls. Probably all of it. Possibly none of it. Grief time doesn’t tick. It melts.

I remember phone calls. I remember planning shit I never wanted to plan. I remember nodding a lot, like my soul had clocked out and left my body running on fumes. I remember my faith holding me together in moments when I was seconds from unraveling.

And somewhere in there, my people showed up. My family. My sober crew. My anchors. They brought food. They brought hugs. They brought the kind of presence that doesn’t ask questions. It just is. That kind of love is holy.

I didn’t drink. Not because I was strong. Because I was held. And because I had a faith bigger than my sorrow.

That’s the thing about these early days. You don’t remember the details. You remember who stood in the fire with you.