Trigger warning.. sharing more

Reword Requested and Completed

This is the account of how I spiraled further into despair while witnessing the person I love endure a tragic loss. Yes, a person, not an object.

Please refrain from using the labels society assigned to her. She was, or maybe still is (I'm not certain about how it all works now), my soulmate. Those "d" words trigger me.

I wrote this during the month she was absent, starting on day 1.

The family I mention is my foster mom's family. Even after 30 years here, they've never shown themselves worthy of that title. I only say it to avoid explaining myself.

August 20, 2021

My soulmate passed away today, and it's entirely my family's fault for her terrible end. Nobody believed me and ostracized me when I repeatedly informed them of her severe illness over the past weeks. They acted as if it were a natural death, but it wasn't. I had been urging them for weeks to take her to the vet, but they ignored me, dismissing my concerns. She passed away in agony on my kitchen floor, with blood and urine flowing from her. I'm seething with anger; this could have been prevented, or at least her suffering could have ended more mercifully. She was just here five minutes ago, and my family is already joking about getting a new puppy. They're also pushing me to get rid of her things. I shared my pain on a mental health forum anonymously, and the responses were incredibly insensitive. They questioned why I didn't take her to the vet and made me feel even worse. I let Jada down. I was too cowardly to be with her as she passed. I went into another room. I'm disgusted with myself.

August 22

Because of him and my family, I have to walk through the room where she was taken from us multiple times a day. I will never forgive them.

I pleaded with them for weeks and begged him to take her to the vet, even sending him pictures and videos of her suffering. I begged him yesterday to end her suffering, but he didn't. My family members excused him, saying he didn't want to pay a vet bill for her to pass soon after. I explained that regardless of the prognosis, she should have had one last visit, either to cure her or to end her suffering peacefully. I tried calling mobile vets, but none would come. I couldn't even hold her as she took her last breaths. I left her alone because I couldn't bear to see her in that condition. I failed her. I promised to get her help, but I didn't. I'm a mess. I wake up crying, have flashbacks, can't eat or sleep willingly, and my self-blame deepens. I apologize to her in my thoughts, hoping she can somehow hear. My days are filled with trying to regulate my tears. I blame myself for everything, including not being strong enough to carry her down or hold her as she passed. I'm angered by my family's lies and their insensitivity toward her and me, calling it a "natural" passing due to age. They can't even get her age right. They left the mop and cloth they used to clean up the blood in my front yard. Her corpse was treated without respect. They took her away somewhere unknown, and I know that the last time they saw her, she was wheeled away. I wanted so much more for her. I pray she's safe and loved in the afterlife.

It's been 18 days since you left. I barely sleep, eat, or speak. When I do, it's impatient and short-tempered. I'm a time bomb constantly going off and reassembling itself. I've locked myself in our room, refusing to step outside. When I mention you, my voice cracks, leading to breakdowns. People tell me to get a "new" "one" as if you're replaceable. I can't smile anymore; my face refuses to. I keep your bed in our room, trying to protect it. They talk about tossing your things, but I won't. I try to keep busy to avoid thinking, but my mind gets busier with those thoughts. Two days ago, I encountered a friendly stray cat who immediately took to me. Under normal circumstances, I would have taken her in, but it's too soon. I'd compare her to you, and I can't accept that. So, I gave her, or maybe you, away. She's also on my mind. My family won't remove the blood-soaked rags and mop from the front yard, so I had to handle them. They continuously let us down.

It's been two years, and I still suffer from your loss. I think of you constantly, cry a lot, and pretend to be happy around others, which is tearing me apart. They don't mention your name, so they won't dispose of your things. I sleep in your bed and keep your ball close. I can't look at your pictures for too long, and I have constant flashbacks and additional PTSD. I still try to avoid people at all costs, and those who catch me always ask when I'm getting another "one." They don't understand that you're irreplaceable.

All I've ever been is the invisible weirdo that everyone avoids.

I'm tired of existing. I wish I knew what I did to deserve everything that has happened to me, and will happen. I'm not a warrior; I'm a frightened, isolated, beaten-down coward.