9 years.

It seems almost surreal that 9 years have passed, that I'm actually still here and functioning and actually doing pretty well for myself. I remember, 9 years ago, thinking that my life had ended. I had lost a part of me and it felt so horribly hollow that I didn't think I could continue living. I cried every night, fingers crossed, waiting for him to come back. I would wake up at 2am in the morning, in cold sweat, from nightmares about the accident, and I would crane my neck to listen for the soft music from his room, or his familiar cough.

Of course, none of that came.

It took me 2 years to accept that he was gone, totally gone, and I would never again be able to fight with him over what show to watch at dinner. At 11, I didn't understand death. Or rather, I decided I wouldn't try to. When people died, others cried, and you never saw that person again. You're told that they've gone to a better place.

I remember thinking, "Why didn't you bring me with you?"

But it's been 9 years, and so much has changed. When it happened, when I watched the last mound of soil cover the wooden prison that encased his body, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to move forward. It just seemed like I would always be in that moment, wet cheeks, red-eyed, light-headed. I didn't realise that all I needed to do was take one step. Then another. Move on. No, it wasn't easy. I came back to school and everyone treaded on eggshells around me. I was fragile to them. I couldn't blame them for treating me differently. Although I seemed fine, I was breaking every other day inside.

So, move on.

People always say that. Here's the deal, though. Don't ever say that to someone who lost her brother, or a parent, or a friend, or, quite simply, anyone. You have no idea what they're dealing with. You have no idea if they've started taking that baby steps. And telling someone to "move on", it just undermines everything they've done to, well, move on. Because even though it seems like we still cry and miss them, we're coming to terms with it in our own ways. I no longer have nightmares. I no longer sit by his grave and break down. I no longer think that I should have been the one who died that evening.

And that, to me, is moving on.

9 years is a long time. But when all you used to know was him, when he was the one who used to carry you in his arms when you were just a baby, it doesn't matter if it's 3 years or 9 or even 20. You're going to miss him. You're going to wonder how different life would be if he was still alive. You're going to have days where you backtrack. That isn't anything to be ashamed about.

When all that's said and done, it's just really so damn easy to miss what we lost. It's even easier to miss them when they used to be such a big part of your life. You can try and try to fill that empty hole they've left behind with work, TV shows or even volunteering. Truth is, you probably will never find a good fit for that gaping hole, because everyone who comes and goes leaves their own unique mark on you.

But what I've realised, a bit late, admittedly, is that there's still so many things to be grateful for. I'm part of an amazing school. I've got some pretty awesome friends who deal with my crazy and love me despite all my fuck-ups, who forgive me when I act out or break down at their doors. I've still got family, and they support me through all the risks I'm currently taking, even though they can't quite express it.

In the words of an old friend, I'm #blessed.