Life After Death

Today marks 3 months since Marie committed suicide and I'm not really sure how I'm dealing with her death/my grief these days.

I do know that missing her has not gotten easier. Sure I don't cry as much. Sure that empty feeling in my stomach is no longer there. Sure I am not throwing things at people and being an impossible wall to talk too. But I miss and think about my best friend every day. I carry her life and death on my shoulder like a badge and Scarlett letter. I am conflicted by my love and rage towards her.

Today I was cleaning up my room when I found a Christmas card Marie sent me two years ago.
It's this silly holiday card with a hand drawn picture of a muscle-y dude holding various handy tools. The guy of my dreams for the holiday she writes. A present from her to me.

I forgot i even had this card in my possession. Since her death I have been in search of physical items of hers to keep nearby. My memories feel faulty. My life with her even more complicated when I do allow myself to go to the time when she was alive. Because of this i find comfort in the physical things she left behind rather than the emotional. The concrete rather than the abstract.

Like the GRE and cookbook she mailed me my first year in New York. Or the stuffed animal she bought me in the 12th grade. His name is George ( i name every stuffed animal George. seriously) and he sleeps in the reading nook i created in my room. I have this ugly scarf she bought me when my hair was uber crazy that i wear every day at home. These physical properties, that she touched and possessed, are my reminders that she existed outside of the memories that plague me.

Cause while my life continues to go on and i form new/meaningful relationships and bonds with people they can't begin to understand the weight of my grief and loss. That the person I felt the closest too in the whole wide world took her life a few months ago.

So naturally when I found this card, I sort of fell to pieces. I gasped and then ran my fingers across her handwriting and brought it close to nose to see it still carried the scent or essence of her. And it doesn't. It's just another thing (along with myself) that she left behind. Another thing that i will add to the rest of the objects I'm collecting and hanging on to that will conjure memories of our time together.

It's hard dealing with her death because i feel so guilty about moving on. I feel guilty about the experiences i am having and the life i am creating and the daily knowledge that for me to deal with her loss it is necessary for me to take charge of my life and happiness. I feel like I am relearning how to live all over again.

The other week I went to a hotel party with a friend (Chris) from work who happens to be Sean's cousin. I've known him longer than Sean and generally like being around him because he's a creative and introverted and sincere platonic guy who i get along with. And the complete opposite of my current crush, which is a good thing.

The party we went to was thrown by a mutual friend whose birthday was that weekend. Because neither of us wanted to go separately we decided to go together. To make it less awkward and so that we would have an out when we both got tired of drunk people and loud music. And while I was a little hesitant about going to this party, I wanted to do something different on a Saturday night. I knew that Chris and I would have a good time regardless ('we can make paper cranes if you feel uncomfortable).

We stayed much longer than anticipated though. We never got to make paper cranes. I was tipsy and and lightheaded because i forgot to eat earlier that day. Some more people from work showed up and we sort of sat around and talk for a long time. As more people started to join the party (many I did not know), it seemed harder to find an excuse to leave. I was concerned because Chris looked like he had no intention of heading home. He sort of fell into the 'jovial talkative' guy early on and I didn't want to leave without the person I came with, even if he decided to change the 'we bail early' plans.

Around midnight though, I was wearing thin. And he immediately took notice. There were several complaints about the noise level in the room, so we took this as our opportunity to bail. Of course by this time, I was above and beyond tipsy. The alcohol had gone straight to my head and I would have failed any 'walk in a straight line' tests. Everyone kept asking how I was going to get home and to be honest I had no clue. I didn't think this part of the night through. But Chris, being the gentleman that he is, offered to walk me all the way home.

I declined his offer at first. I live about 30 minutes from the hotel and I was worried about how he would get home because he would miss his bus or train by walking me all the way to my house. But he said he didn't mind. He told Sean he would take care of me and that is what he intended to do. So he extended his arm out for me to grab and we started the stumbling, drunk walk to my house.

On the walk home we talked about everything: Sylvia Plath, how to sober up in the morning, the lack of hours at work, what it is that we are suppose to have figured out in our 20's. It was sort of nice. The moon was out, there was a nice wind blowing and he let me rest my head on his shoulder as he practically dragged me home. As we started the walk up the big ass hill that leads to my house he started to talk about writing. Current and old projects. He wanted to know how my writing was coming along. And i said (something along the lines of):

My best friend killed herself 10 weeks ago. She was my everything. And everything I use to know about writing and myself and life feels uneven. I don't know who I am as a writer anymore because she was such a big part of my life as one. So the writing is not coming. I can't think anymore. I have no words anymore. For anything.

I felt him tense up against me. He was quiet for a moment and I feared that I'd gone too far by bringing her up. By admitting my current issues with writing. But baring such a private thing to him. But he continued dragging me up the hill, matching my sloppy steps and said (something along the lines of)

I heard. About your friend. And, um, I wanted to say that I was sorry. When you came to me and Sean that day, we didn't know, that she would...you know, we weren't trying to be, dismissive, we just didn't know...I'm sorry.

You ever hear something that you didn't know you needed to hear but when you do a huge weight is lifted from your shoulder. I must admit that is what I felt when he said this too me. He validated my loss and grief and sadness while validating her existence and impact in my life. I wanted to cry when he apologized because i felt so alone and unsupported that week when i thought she'd gone missing and there I was because comforted and held together by another friend who is stepping into help me deal with this loss.

We safely made it to my house, where i finally let go of his arm and thank him for walking me home. He wished me a goodnight not before saying that in the morning I'd probably feel like shit and that:

whatever you feel you've lost (writing wise) since her death will resurface. It'll be different maybe but it hasn't gone away. Start from where you are now. You'll find your way back to writing again.


And I feel like that goes for everything in my life these days. Everything, absolutely, everything I thought about life, love, friendship, death and myself has all changed since Marie died. Since her death I feel like I've been dropped off in some strange, new, world where i have no other choice but to adjust too the new things around me. Some days it is easy. Some days it is hard. But eventually i hope that on the other side of this grieving process I find myself back to a version of me that's renewed, a tad different, essenstially the same, forever shaped by the time i had with her.

I just got to start healing from this point. The point where the cracks have yet healed.

I miss her everyday. I miss us everyday. And that fact that it's been three months since she died is unbelievable. But i'm getting better. I feel stronger. Sometimes fragile. But better. I know this much at least.