Kryptonite.

My mind feels empty.

The only thing inside of it is the echo of his voice.

I hold onto it as tight as I can, terrified that one day I won’t remember how it sounds.

I don’t want to forget how he smelled, how he laughed, how he walked.

I hold onto it so tightly it almost suffocates me, like if I loosen my grip he’ll fade away completely.

There’s so much guilt. So much confusion.

This was my dad.

My dad is gone.

My dad.

It makes no sense.

It’s so stupid. 

The strongest person I’ve ever known and he’s gone.

I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts for years and he knew that. We talked about it.

We promised to stay for each other.

But he left.

And now what.

Where’s my example of strength.

Where’s the person who was supposed to show me how to keep fighting when life hurts this much.

People tell me, “You have kids, you have to stay for them.”

But he had kids too.

He had grandbabies who loved him, who adored him.

He had parents. A sister. A family that surrounded him with love.

And still he left.

Love will never be enough.

It isn’t a magical fairytale that heals everything.

It hurts. It kills. It breaks you open and leaves you bleeding.

I used to believe in love with every ounce of my heart, but now I don’t know what love even is.

And somehow, even after everything, it’s still the thing I keep reaching for.

I keep hearing his voice in my head, but it’s just echoes now.

And I don’t know if I’m holding onto him or if he’s the one still holding onto me.

But I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still waking up even when I don’t want to.

Maybe that’s what strength looks like now. Not peace, not understanding, just staying.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it makes no sense.

I’m still here.

He was my Superman.

The strongest man I’ve ever known.

But even Superman had a Kryptonite.