I’m sitting here at my desk, a little drunk, emotionally overloaded, and listening to Type O Negative, as I’ve done so many nights before. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time, unsure if I should even write this. But something inside me said, now. Now is the time to say what I haven’t said for five years.

This is about Jeannette.

We had a rough relationship. That’s putting it lightly. She was polyamorous ; I wasn’t. I was a penguin, mate-for-life type. But she was my heart and soul from 2010 on. We broke up more than once, always over the same thing. But we kept coming back. Not for the kids. For each other. Every time we tried again, we tried hard. And by the end of 2019, I thought we’d finally gotten it right.

The universe apparently had other plans.

She died on February 13th, 2020. The day before Valentine’s Day, our day. Not an anniversary, not anything official, just… ours. That date meant something to us. We claimed it. And then, just like that, it became a countdown to trauma. Every year, while people buy flowers and chocolate, I sit with the ghost of someone who never came home.

She loved Whitman’s chocolates. Not the whole box, just one piece. The milk chocolate rectangle. The “mailman chocolate,” she used to call it. I bought her a box on February 12th, thinking she’d eat it when she got out of the hospital.

She never did.

It sat in the closet of our apartment, unopened. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Couldn’t throw it away. It became a monument to the hope I had. I hoped she’d walk back through the door and laugh. She would take the stupid little piece of chocolate and say it was all okay.

Eventually, I left Tucson. I couldn’t breathe there anymore. I abandoned the apartment, and everything in it. Including the Whitman’s box.

The worst part? I knew she needed to go to the hospital sooner. I begged her. She was stubborn. She fought me. The only way I could get her help was to wait until she couldn’t fight me anymore. When diabetic ketoacidosis wiped her out, I called the ambulance. But it was too late.

People say, “You did your best.” I didn’t want to do my best. I wanted to save her. But I couldn’t. She never came home.

Most people don’t really know me. They know the upbeat version. The guy cracking jokes, the one who tries to lift everyone else up. But that’s not the full picture. Not even close. The real me lives in shadows. He only shows up when I’ve had enough whiskey to stop pretending I’m okay.

That’s why I listen to so much Type O Negative. It’s not just music. It’s survival. It’s how I release the grief without unraveling in front of people. Pete Steele put it best in Everyone I Love is Dead:

At times I’m truly terrified
‘Cause dope and booze don’t help to hide
They’re used to mask a weakling’s hurt
It’s just like painting over dirt.

That’s me. My whole persona is paint over dirt. And most days, it holds. But underneath? I’m still grieving. Still broken. Still that guy who bought a box of chocolate for a woman who never came back.

I don’t have real friends anymore. Don’t reach out. Don’t want to. Wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s not about trust, I still believe people are human. Flawed. Trying. That’s not the problem. The problem is, I’ve lost too much. And I’m scared to let anyone else in just to lose them too.

I want to love again. Or at least, I think I do. I’m not sure I know how. After losing her… and losing my mom and brother in 2016… it’s like grief has always been sitting next to me at the table. It’s familiar now. I know its weight. I carry it well enough to smile through it.

But it’s always there.

Everything since then has been fog. Holidays mean nothing now. Christmas was her favorite, even more than her birthday, which was five days before it. I keep a wreath she loved on my door year-round. Not for decoration. Just because I can’t take it down. Christmas lights? They make me cry. Every time.

And here’s the real truth, something I’ve never said out loud to anyone. Not even our son:
I’ve never told this story. I keep the mask on, always. I’m terrified to feel anything because I’m afraid it’ll tear me open and I won’t be able to close it again. But yes, I’ve “talked” to her. In dreams. In moments of silence. I had a dream not long after I moved back to Iowa where she told me, clear as day: “It’s okay to move on.”

I’ve been trying to believe that ever since.

I don’t have a neat wrap-up here. She’s still gone. I’m still here. Some days that feels like a victory. Others, like a punishment. But I needed to say this out loud, finally. For her.

For me.

Maybe now, I can breathe a little easier.

—Brad, 2025
this is me — I’m finally saying it.