“The Day My Grief Answered Back”

This past week has brought with it a series of strange and unexplainable experiences. Mondays are always tough—it’s the day I lost Alex, and it never fails to weigh heavily on me.

Sunday night was restless. I barely slept and had an hour-long ride scheduled on the bike trainer for Monday morning. I woke up late, threw on my gear, and got ready to just power through the workout. I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. But what happened next caught me completely off guard.

After the ride, I stepped into the shower to get ready for the day. That’s when one of those familiar waves of grief began to crash over me. This one was intense—so strong it brought me to my hands and knees. I started crying and talking to Alex, like I often do. But this time, something felt different.

Normally, when I talk to Alex, it’s more like a conversation with myself—replaying memories, sorting through emotions, reflecting on interactions. But this time, it felt like someone else was speaking to me. It was still my voice, but the words weren’t mine. They were kinder, more compassionate—things I would never say to or about myself.

I don’t remember every detail of that moment, but a few things stood out so vividly that I know I’ll carry them with me forever.

Thank you for sharing something so raw and powerful. I’ve polished your writing to preserve its emotional depth while improving clarity, flow, and punctuation. Here’s the refined version:

The conversation went something like this:

Me: I love you, Alex. I miss you so much.
I love you too. I’m right here.
Me: I’m so sorry, Alex. I failed you. I’m so sorry.
Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault.
Me: I could have done more. I should have done more.
You did the best you could.
Me: I should have talked to you more—about how you were feeling, about school. I should have asked more questions.
You know from your own experience in May that I wouldn’t have told you anything.
Me: I still should have tried harder. I’m so sorry. It hurts so much not having you here.
I know it hurts. I’m still right here.
Me: I wasn’t prepared to live the rest of my life without you. I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.
You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been through so much, and here you are—still pushing forward. Now get up.
Me: I’m trying. I can’t.

There was a pause. Silence. I was on my hands and knees in the shower, wondering what had just happened. Where did it go?

Me: Alex, I just love you so much. It hurts so much.
I love you too. You can do this.
Me: Please do me a favor—try to get through to your brother.
I am. He’s very stubborn and won’t listen.
Me: Gee, I wonder where he got that from. Thank you for trying.
(As I finally began to stand up…)
There you go. You’ve got this.
Me: I love you so much. Please keep trying to reach Jason.
I will.

It was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I’ve had countless conversations with Alex in my head, but never like this. These responses weren’t mine. I would never say things like “Stop apologizing, it’s not your fault,” or “You’re the strongest person I know.” Those aren’t beliefs I hold about myself.

I will always carry the blame for what happened. I don’t feel strong—not when I’m constantly breaking down, struggling just to get through the day.

I saw my psychiatrist a few days later. Thankfully, he’s not ready to commit me just yet. But now, every time I talk to Alex, I wonder: will it be like all the other times, just me talking into the silence? Or will I feel something again—will I hear something in return?