You, annoyed, modeling our friends' band shirt
Dear Blake,
You know how I feel about doctors and medical stuff.
When you had drains in, woozy from surgery, you told the nurse to stop telling me about aftercare because you knew the conversation made me queasy.
You'd always reassure me I'd be fine. That I could handle it. We could handle it.
I picked a new dermatologist. My deep fear was that she would find a bunch of stuff that everyone other dermatologist ignored.
That she'd slash at me after coming at me with needles. And she did.
She took three biopsies. Two from moles other dermas have deemed fine. One I don't think I noticed. One was a punch biopsy. I peeked at the wound. It's vile. A mutilation on my own body that made me cringe, gag a little. I'll be leaving the bandaids on until they fall off, thank you very much. Well, two of them I can't reach, and you aren't here to help me.
Now I wait.
I know logically that having a chunk removed is definitely preferable to something else. I know it could be nothing, because I'm a new patient, and she might just be cautious, having never seen these moles before. It could be *something* that she got at all of in the biopsy. I can handle it. I know that logically. The thought of scalpels and stitches makes me want to vomit. Just typing that, my stomach rolled in protest.
But I know I'd come home crying and you'd reassure me, albeit possibly slightly annoyed, because everything you went through was so much worse and you took it all in stride. Sort of.
You'd hug me. You'd offer to go with me and hold my hand, if I wanted. You'd tell me I would be fine. You'd help me pass the week - week- I have to wait. You'd tell me, exasperatedly, YOU'RE NOT SICK LINDSEY, because my medical anxiety is through the roof.
I wish you could remind me, annoyed tone and all, because every ache, every tic, every cough, every sneeze, every pain feels like my body is gearing up for some grand collapse, some horrible, out-of-nowhere, "this is so unusual!," illness.
(Which, in a way, grief is. The heart-racking sobs I was ready for. The acne, the stomach aches, the body pains, the dissociation, I was not.)
Even if you thought I was being completely silly, you would reassure because you understood what I was asking for, even if I wasn't asking for it.
(As an aside, I remember telling you early on that my dating experiments were usually short-lived because dudes seemed to enjoy the 'cool metal girl' me, and peaced out when they met the 'has complex, shitty, wild, beautiful, difficult, fantastical thoughts' me. Basically, that weak-ass dudes didn't want to date an actual human woman, but a cardboard cut-out that would go to shows, drink beers, and knew all the words to their favorite songs.)
You loved me, wholly and completely, moles and biopsies and phobias and all, because you understood that I was a real, complex person. And in return, I knew the real, complex you.
That knowing is what gives every relationship it's own language, it's own rhythm, it's own inside jokes.
Because you knew the me that exists in my head. You understand her- and how sometimes I feel like my brain is a lot of different parts, each with their own roles.
You'd prickle me with your beard, you'd snort like a peeg dog in my ear. You'd kiss me. You might even look at me like I'm the most special thing you've ever seen.
All relationships have their own culture, in a way. And even as hard as your illnesses were, we still had our culture, our rituals, our little silly things, automatic responses to things.
"This dug is my best friend!"
"What about me?!"
"He's my best DUG friend. You're my best people friend. I love you."
A culture of you, me, and the dog.
I'm the last human participant in our culture, built over ten years, refined over arguments and trips and adventure and boredom and love.
I'm not the last member because we got sick of each other. Not because there was a problem too big to fix. Not because we'd simply grown apart.
But because life is really fucking unfair sometimes.
Now, I tell the house "Come home, peeg."
The house is silent.
I light palo santo, I burn candles every day, I lay stones next to my bed to call you home, sometimes feeling silly, sometimes deeply serious, waiting for you to appear as some sort of apparition, spirit, ghost, angel, memory.
No one visits.
I tell the dog, "You're my best friend."
No one replies.
I say "The dug is being baid, which means he's YOURS right now. Noooo, not mine. Yours. You get the bad one. You get the butt, too."
No one prickles me with their beard. No one snorts in my ear. I can shriek "pleeeeeeeease" when I really want something, or dance like a goober in front of the TV, and no one rolls their eyes or tells me to move or listens to that god damn Sonic Youth album I hate. (It's Goo, you know it's Goo and I hate it so much.)
In six weeks, I've never come home to a random cake, or a failed attempt at breadsticks that are mostly edible, or a Reese's, or you, happily telling me about a new record or some wild drama in the metal scene that we're observing from afar.
And I fully know that most of this sounds ridiculous to literally anyone but you. And it is. It was. It was our culture. A culture of two plus the late Pujo, plus the Craib dug, plus the eventually-to-be Monster dog.
For nearly ten years, I have moved through this house, with you, as the me I know in my head. I learned how to articulate- because of you, or maybe for you- my inner most thoughts, my fucked up brain, when it wasn't being logical or rational. I spoke, with you, the language of my depression, anxiety, CPTSD. I sorted through words to find the right ones to explain sometimes disproportionate reactions to things, why some things make me clam up while others make me snap.
We built a culture around our true selves...not the selves we present in public. Everyone knew your sense of humor, your warmth, your shit-talking. But not everyone got to see your sadness, your fear, your gentleness, your compassion. I got to know the whole you, and I am forever grateful that I met parts of you, that you did not readily show the world- and embrace the parts you did.
Not everyone could truly appreciate how crucial it is to have someone like you, a connector, who was always, always making sure people felt welcome. The simple gesture of introducing everyone who gathered around beers, at a show, is so simple, and so deeply missed. I always appreciated it, but I miss this cultural baseline even more since I've been shyly retreating into myself, surrounded by one friend and many strangers, no one making the move to say "hey, did you meet my friend Lindsey?" Or "Lindsey, you gotta meet Bob, Bob works at RECORD LABEL. BOB, Lindsey works at RECORD LABEL." Or even "Shit bro you're being rude, introduce us!"
I almost never do it because the moment never feels right- too early comes off as too eager, too much puppy energy. There's an expectation that we'll continue talking, conversing, and all I really want is to swallow my tongue and disappear because how the fuck does anyone do this?! Just *talk* to a complete stranger?! No, no thank you.
Too late and it's awkward. Constantly wondering "Shit. Did we meet before? Should I know you?! Fuck." The nagging worry that we might have a shared past that I, like a complete asshole, have forgotten. The absolute horror of someone finding an interaction with me meaningful enough to remember, and me, with absolutely no memory of this person. No, no thank you.
Because we could read each other, we bailed each other out many times.
"Babe, BOB and I hung out while you were loading in for your set...BOB tell him what you thought of the new ShitSucker EP. He's spot on."
"Hey, babe, go introduce yourself to this girl, I cannot for the life of me remember her name."
Such a simple gesture. One where no one felt like an asshole, everyone felt included.
A cultural basic, the introduction.
A cultural basic, the polite way to be reminded of someone's name.
A cultural basic, me, dancing in front of the TV while you watched Jack and Ozzy's Bigfoot adventures. You, rolling your eyes and telling me to get out of the way, damn it.
A cultural basic, you offering me your hand while you serenade me with "This Charming Man" and wiggle in your attempt at a dance move (also a cultural basic).
A cultural basic, you stroking my hair or holding my hand while I untangled the screaming mass of threads in my brain, to put words to the shrieking entities.
And now I'm left with a culture of one.
I showed you the whole me, the me that exists in my head, from all her beauty and strength, to her deepest fears and insecurities.
And you loved me, all of me, all the same.
And I don't know that anyone will ever meet her again.
I miss you always and endlessly.
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