Wednesday was the last stop, the big goodbye, the end of it all. And if you’ve ever lost someone, you know that this is where the hard stuff really begins. The shock has worn off. The whirlwind of preparing and notifying and keeping busy is over. Everything is quiet and still, and there is ample time to realize the weight of what just happened.

It’s only been a couple days and I’m already not handling this stage well. And the fact is, I have to work today. I have to be here at this desk answering the phone. I can’t stay home in bed even though I want to. I can’t just stop everything. I’m trying to hold it together because I can’t do my job if I’m hysterical.

There are certain things about her that are still crystal clear to me. What her face looked like, the exact way she left her make-up scattered all over the bathroom, and the way she smelled. The sound of her voice. Sometimes I feel like the phone is going to ring and it’s going to be her. That’s one of the strangest things. Remembering so vividly that it’s like she’s still here.

But there are certain things that are already fading away. Things like exactly how tall she was and what color nail polish she always wore. And I know they seem trivial, but nothing is trivial to me. And it’s only been over a week since she’s been gone. These things are slipping away so quickly. I keep wondering what will be the next thing to slip.

I can’t bear the thought of not remembering her completely.

Getting drunk is not a very effective way of dealing with severe grief and depression.

Today isn’t looking too good to clarify yesterday’s post.

All I can think today over and over and over is - why is it that no one can ever tell me why? No one can ever fucking explain. Everywhere I go people just tell me “I don’t know why, Ashley, these things just happen.” But that’s wrong, it’s not right, these things don’t just ‘happen’. These events, they aren’t freak accidents. They don’t happen overnight. And still, no one can tell me why. Why it’s always the best people, why it’s always drugs, why every single fucking asshole on the whole planet will live through hell or high water, but the amazing people that you love with all your heart, they’re always the ones to die.

I just wrote about my tendency to rehash old memories constantly, and how I remember things people rarely do.

And one of those things is every first thought I ever had upon hearing that a friend had died.

And now, today, I have another one of those first thoughts. And I thought that I’d write about it now, when it’s fresh but before it’s really hit me. In a an hour, when I’m driving home from work, I know I’ll be inconsolable and unable to tell anyone how I’m feeling without wailing. Right now my job is holding me together and keeping all of my emotions frozen. It’s a very strange place to be, here, totally disconnected from myself, on autopilot.

(more…)

There are some people in this world who can be graceful and tactful and not judge others when they make insensitive comments; comments that most likely tumbled out due to being unsure of how to react to another person’s tragedy.

These diplomatic people can say things like “Well, some days are worse than others” in response to someone who says “I saw her the other day and she didn’t seem upset”; this, of course, subtly implying that the person being discussed is “over” whatever grief they were trapped under, or in my case, that if the person could smile then nothing ever happened. They were right. She was obviously lying.

(more…)

After two days spent with him, two days that dangerously resembled the good old days, I’m left thinking about war. Or really, thinking about us in relation to the war, what it’s done to us. Who we were before it finally got to us. The stupid war that has never meant for me what it meant for everyone else. The politics were left behind in favor of “But what about me?” I couldn’t think of it in terms of right and wrong anymore, just in terms of “I want him home and he’s not and now I’m going to cry about it.”

Now that he is home, safe and unharmed, the fact that everything has changed irreversibly is too obvious to ignore.

At first, we were a united front in the face of the ridiculous war. We laughed at it. We both prided ourselves on being different, being stubborn, not letting other people’s agendas ruin shit for us. We were tougher than any stupid war that anyone could come up with, and the world would be sorry for doubting us. That’s what we told ourselves and everyone else. That’s what we wanted and needed to be true. And everyone we knew was behind us, hoping we were right.

The reality of it all is that I was sick every single day while he was gone and he wouldn’t tell anyone how he was really feeling or what he was really doing because he didn’t want us to worry. We weren’t tougher; we were just determined to stick to our story. And that is just what we did.

Then our world was blown open. My world was blown open and I dragged his with it.

And if I could have left him without a single word of explanation of what happened and why, if I could have let him think I was just some selfish girl that he never really knew, I would have done it. I would have broken him in one swift move and he could have hated me and told his friends I was a cunt and every girl within a 50 mile radius would flock to him like moth to flame.

He could have told them “I’m sorry, I just can’t be in a relationship, I’ve got trust issues now, my ex-girlfriend really did a number on me, ya know?” and they would have eaten up every last bit of it and his number of sexual partners would have quadrupled in a matter of months.

But I couldn’t. I knew him, I knew he wasn’t that guy, and I didn’t want to turn him into that guy. Mostly, I was too weak to make him hate me; I couldn’t muster up that one deep breath that would have let me take that plunge. And too many people already knew the truth before him, he’d find out somehow, and we would have been so much more broken after that. Confused on top of it all, and I’d have been unable to adequately explain my lies, or why I never told him or let him help me.

And so I told him the truth and unwillingly let him get pinned under the grief with me.

The world was so big after that, so empty and chaotic at the same time. I couldn’t make sense of anything or anyone; everyone was speaking a different language. I needed him to translate for me, because he’s the only one who ever listened long enough to know me. I was stuck here and I was totally alone.

So what’s the war’s part in this? God, I could blame it for everything. But mostly, it’s because it made it so that he wasn’t here. It took me a long time to realize that the reason I couldn’t be with him is because I resented him for not being here. For not being able to help me. And as ridiculous as that is, because he couldn’t help it and I know he would have sold his soul or cut off his own leg to be at home with me every minute until I wasn’t crazy anymore, I couldn’t help it. I knew my resentment made no sense and that he had no say in any of it, and I didn’t blame him and I wasn’t angry with him.

I was just so far away from him. We had a whole war between us. Two wars, really. His and mine. And we couldn’t fight them both at the same time. We were simply outnumbered.

And then the distance just piled on after we were apart, the gap kept growing. I didn’t just resent his absence, I resented all of the people who looked at me in a way that said “Yeah yeah, he told us what happened but did you have to break up with him? What does he have to do with it? I mean it just doesn’t make sense.”

Or even worse “Yeah, well that sucks, but he fought a WAR. People DIED. Why are you punishing him?” As if it was my choice, as if the only reason anything had happened is because I wanted to punish him.

I found myself comforting people we knew or somehow feeling a need to prove myself as Really Fucking Damaged, I Am So Not Kidding. I was broken into a million pieces and somehow still holding other people together. I was feeling guilty for finding the ability to laugh at a joke or feel for 5 minutes that my life may return to normal at some point because everywhere I turned it seemed like people were looking on thinking “See? She’s fine. I knew it.”

And he was left trying to explain to people what had happened, everything seemed so perfect, no she isn’t an asshole, really, shit just happens. The distance was too much. Shrug shoulders, move on. Try not to violate my privacy while trying to figure out who to tell. Who could help? We never saw this coming. I guess no one ever does.

That’s what war did to us. It made us into victims of someone else’s agenda. Instead of being young rebellious kids, drunk punks in the face of authority, it made us into people who just had to sit there and take it. Instead of standing up and saying “Fuck you” to the bullshit someone heaped into our laps as both of us had always done, we just had to sit down on the curb, hands cuffed behind us, heads hung low, waiting for our parents to come pick us up.

And now we force our days. Like soldiers suffering from shell shock, we’re still fighting those wars in our heads. I find myself trying so hard to get back to that place where we couldn’t be touched, where all we did all day for hours was laugh and laugh and laugh. We were completely bulletproof. Untouchable.

What I wouldn’t give to be those people again. Those people, in relation to each other, are casualties of war as much as any poor soul who never made it home.

Remember. That is probably the word that means the most in my life.

“Do you remember that time when we….”

“Remember how he used to…”

“I remember she used to have this…”

It’s all I do all day long. Remember. My memory is my most important thing. I mean, I’ll never remember to finish all the mail in time or print out the copier logs on the right day at work; that kind of memory isn’t my strong suit. But I’ll always remember what Peter was wearing the first time I saw him. What dress I was wearing when my brother was born. The smell of Katie’s house, the taste of Nan’s cooking, and the first time Dan Rumianowski ever touched me. The shoes I was wearing the first time I saw Chris Connor which was also the first time a boy ever made me feel like I was going to throw up all over those shoes. The exact taste of a menthol cigarette mixed with Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple. My complete inner dialogue from the night right before my 8 month old cousin died. Every first thought I had upon hearing that a friend had died.

I could recite to you every single infinitesimal detail of those times. My own tiny mythologies. An effort to make sense of the uncontrollable and unforeseen events of my life. My best effort at making sure no man is left behind. The whole world could forget these things, these events, these people, but not me. I single handedly take their weight on my shoulders and drag them around with me to make sure they don’t slip away forever.

Most of those people aren’t even gone, they’re still here and living and breathing. But they’re different people now, whether they’ve moved forward or taken a few steps back, maybe just a few steps to the side. Different nonetheless. And I think it’s important to remember who they were when I met them. When we were friends, and not the kind of friends who have to ask “So, what have you been doing with yourself lately?” People change and grow constantly, and the road from ‘who you were’ to ‘who you are’ isn’t a straight shot. You can’t just turn around and see miles behind you. You have to try and make the trip back, and it’s never an easy one. It’s not a trip that most people even consider taking. Even if you do, it’s impossible to see yourself accurately. To see yourself the way you really were. And that’s ok, because I remember. Those times were never lost on me.

Still, I don’t want the people I know to be the people they used to be. I just really enjoy knowing where they’ve been and seeing where they’re going and who they’re becoming. I like the before and after.

I’m just so aware that if I let go of the memories of them as they were, if I let them slip into the useless jumble of faded recollections from “The Year When” (as my grandma says), then the people they were are gone forever. And I loved those people. I really did. I still do.

I wasn’t meant to work for other people. I constantly doubt myself; tie my stomach in knot after knot after knot. Think about it constantly, on every drive to work and every drive home. Rehash the day’s events in my mind and pick apart all of things that could come back to haunt me in coming weeks. Did I call FedEx? Did I stow something away in a drawer and forget about it? Sometimes the day’s demands are just too monotonous. It produces an effect that is the exact polar opposite of what you would expect. You’d think I’d speed through the few boring tasks that are assigned to me because I’ve got nothing better to do. In reality, it makes even the simplest task impossible to complete. I mentally check-out during most tasks and it takes me hours to complete them. I drift off into fits of deep thought, contemplating anything and everything, mentally challenging myself to figure out complex questions about any subject imaginable. I make plans I’ll never follow through with, design things I’ll never execute. Rehash embarrassing memories, torture myself with every time a boyfriend has cheated on me. My brain is reaching out for anything other than what is right in front of it. None of this happens on purpose; it seems inevitable. It happens on its own and I’m powerless. My brain craves hours and hours of time to think, work things out, solve problems and ponder. It doesn’t matter if I have work to do. My brain decides that it’s not being challenged, and *poof*. That’s it. No work is getting done for the next 2 hours.

And most of the time, I’m left pondering how and when my life became so small. So boxed in. When did I decide to settle on this desk, this one phrase repeated over and over like a parrot? Everyday is a soundtrack of the same thing. The phone rings and abbreviates all conversations, all tasks, all thoughts, and all intentions. I open my mouth and the phone rings. I open an email or a folder and the phone rings.

My life was supposed to expand at some point, start growing, expanding horizons and all that bullshit. My life used to be a van in a parking lot and it has never grown beyond that point. I’ve been sporadically jogging in place for the past 23 years, complaining that my legs are tired when I really mean that I hate at running, I suck at it, and I’m afraid to trip. I’m afraid of everything except for answering phones.