Let go of the past...

I've waited too long to write this, and it's been eating me up inside.
But, before I start, let me explain this blog.
I never wanted to have hundred of subscribers, because if I did I feel like I would start editing my life, and that would be the last thing I wanted to do. I want this blog to almost be like a diary, but at the same time I know that someone IS reading this, so instead of just drowning in my emotions and not getting anything solved, I would be forced to explain it in a rational sense. This blog is also for me to be able to not only write about my highs and my lows, but my norms. But, being the type of person that I am, I can't talk about my everyday if something big is still looming behind me. So here I go...
My grandmother passed away. I know this sounds like nothing, because if you were to lose anyone, the one that has lived a long happy life would be the easiest to let go of. But the thing is, she wasn't living a happy life. My grandmother had dementia, this means that her brain was more or less slowly eating itself. When you have dementia it's effects your memory, and your sense of reasoning. My grandmother was diagnosed when I was 8, so I had only begun to really know her.
My grandmother had lived with my family since I was born, so I didn't know a life without her. I remember she had an apartment downstairs, and she was my best friend. If anything was wrong, I ran to her. But, the disease slowly ate away at her. She couldn't remember where she parked the car, where she left her keys, if she shut the oven off. And after she was diagnosed, she moved upstairs. With her health worsening she would mix up who we were. I was my sister, my sister was me, the dog was the cat. But she began to see things that weren't there. She loved to read, so she began to think that what she was reading was true. She could no longer take a shower by herself. Get ready by herself. Eat by herself. So about 3 years ago, my mother decided to put her in a home. It was one of the hardest things she had done.
She got worse and worse and worse. I couldn't remember the grandmother I had, only the empty stare I was looking at. I stopped visiting her so much. She stopped being my grandmother, more of a chore, an outlook I beat myself up for now. I can't even imagine how she felt. Not knowing where you are, who's around you, who you are.
When she died she couldn't walk. She couldn't speak. She couldn't eat. She had a cyst on her side that just exploded. I remember looking at her, being next to her, just holding her hand, and not knowing what to think. There was the woman who brought me to the park, held me when I got scared, kissed my boo boos. She's dying in my arms and I can't even grow enough balls to say goodbye?
I wasn't able to say goodbye to her, and she wasn't able to say goodbye to me. She died the day after I saw her, and she didn't remember who I was, but even if she did she couldn't say it. I understand she's in a better place now, but getting over this mountain of her death is tough.