Losing someone you love to suicide is a new type of pain. It isn’t the heartbreak that you thought you would never get over. It isn’t any physical pain that you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to endure. It’s a nauseating combination of physical and emotional pain. It’s devastation that takes the air out of your lungs and follows you around like a cloud of smoke.

It’s the phone call that I’ll never forget. The phone call that starts it all – making it hard to breathe, not knowing what to do next, and praying that it isn’t true. It’s the tears that seem to never end – making my face raw and leaving it burning.

It’s trying to hold it together through the viewing and funeral, and failing miserably. It’s thanking God for the friends who got me through the services, holding my hand every step of the way. It’s hoping that it would all get easier if I could just make it through that weekend.

It’s constantly replaying the last time I told you goodbye, completely unaware that it would be our last. It’s wishing that I would have hugged you a little tighter and begged you not to leave. It’s the life shattering fact that just three weeks after that, I would be standing over your casket, paying your family my respects.

It’s the never ending feelings of guilt. Wishing I could have changed your mind. Wishing you would have reached out and told someone just how much pain you had been in for entirely too long. It’s knowing that you could have gotten better – that you could have been happy again someday – and that we could have helped you if only we had known. It’s the guilt that overcomes me when in a good moment, I am happy again – wondering how I can be happy without you here.

It’s the flowing tears each night, trying to fathom the amount of pain that you must have been in. It’s wrapping up in the pullover that I gave you last year for your birthday that still smells just like you, willing to give anything to have you back in my arms instead.

It’s the never-ending cycle of questions. How long had you known that this would be your fate? Was there anything that I could have done? How did I not see the signs?

It’s seeing kids in the grocery store and realizing that now you’ll never become the incredible father we all know you would have been. It’s wondering where you would be today, and all the successes you will no longer get to achieve. It’s going back to your hometown and seeing parts of you everywhere I turn.

It’s all of the moments that we’ll never get to share now – no more hours of laying in bed, making you watch my favorite TV show. No more baseball games together, no more cheering you on from the stands. No more good luck texts before our games. No more middle of the night facetime calls just because I miss you. No more laughing until it hurts. No more turning to you for comforting words and a tight hug when things go wrong.

It’s all of the memories of you that I pray I never forget. The fear of forgetting that sparkle in your eyes or exactly how your voice sounded.

It’s the moments when I can no longer keep myself busy or preoccupied - when it all hits me again. It’s the numbness as I start to reprocess it all, then the air leaving my lungs, and the strength leaving my body. It’s struggling to pick myself back up off the floor, pull myself back together – and continue on with my day.

It’s the moments when I can’t continue on, so I speed back to your hometown to be with you. It’s the tears streaming down my face every time that I pull in – making it all a little more real. It’s circling the grave yard, because leaving you again is too hard.

It’s waking up in the mornings and quickly realizing that this isn’t just a nightmare. This is our new reality, one without you in it.

It’s hoping that you’re finally at peace – that you’re up there watching over all of us and that each day we’re making you proud. It’s thanking God for the time He gave us together – for that last visit that served as our goodbye – for allowing you to bless so many peoples’ lives with your warmth, kindness, and laughter.

It’s people continuing to tell me that it will be okay and that it will get easier. It won’t be okay – you’re not coming back, and I lost someone I love to a senseless mental illness. I lost someone incredible, who meant the world to me, and showed me how to find the light even on my darkest days. You will forever be in my heart and on my mind.

So here’s to you Conner Reed Taylor, and all of the love, memories, and life lessons you left me with.