Bastards of Loss

We take for granted the ones who love us most, blind to their silent sacrifices until we stand by their graves on birthdays. It is ironic, how we expend our energy seeking the approval of those who care the least. Whether it’s for professional gain or sheer selfishness, the sentiment remains unaltered, a cruel reminder to our misplaced priorities.

Life’s harshest lessons come in hindsight, when the comfort of a loved one is reduced to a memory. “Why couldn’t I have spent more time with them? Why did we squabble over the trivial?” These questions haunt me. The bonds we forge, so tight and unyielding, only to watch them unravel in death’s cold grasp. A child losing a parent, no matter the age, shatters something fundamental. We lose parts of ourselves one person at a time until our own turn comes.

It’s not just human connections that carve these scars into our souls. Our pets, too, are family, and losing a longtime companion feels like losing a child. At least, it does for me. A dog’s loyal eyes, a cat’s quiet purr, they become the witnesses to our lives, and their loss is a piece torn from our very being.

This realization can be terrifying. It makes some recoil from the prospect of deep relationships, choosing the safety of solitude over the potential for pain. It breeds a darkness, a depression, a paranoia about losing another loved one prematurely. These thoughts consume my mind in the quiet hours. I’ve lost my father, an aunt who was more like a mother figure, all my grandparents, and one of my best friends. Life seems to delight in my torment.

Each loss is a unique agony. My father’s absence is a constant ache, an unfinished conversation. My aunt, left a void of guidance and warmth. My grandparents, keepers of stories, took with them a piece of history. And my best friend, made beautiful music, now it is unfair to hear his voice, leaving a silence that no song can fill. The torment is not just the absence of their voices and warm embraces, but the dread of losing yet another. The fear that at any moment, another thread in the fabric of my life might unravel.

I can’t lie and say that reminiscing about the good times heals my wounds. It only makes them gape wider, deeper. The memories, once a source of comfort, become sharp edges that cut me anew. I have to block them out or risk spiraling into a chasm of depression. The laughter we shared, the advice given, the moments of unspoken understanding—they haunt me. They are ghosts that whisper in the night, reminding me of what I’ve lost and what I stand to lose.

Life is fucked up and unfair. It is beautiful and miraculous. Every day is a choice, and you can choose how to live it. But the choice is never easy, and the weight of loss is a burden that never truly lifts. I walk through life carrying these invisible scars, shaped by the love and the loss, by the joy and the sorrow. Each day, I make a choice: to remember, to forget, to move forward, to stand still. Each day is a battle, a struggle to find meaning in the face of inevitable loss.

We are all just passing through, temporary travelers on this journey. The love we give and the love we receive are the only things that last. They are the imprints we leave behind, that linger long after we’re gone. And so, despite the pain, despite the fear, we must continue to love deeply, to connect, to live.