Dear Blake, I'm Mad At You.

 Dear Blake, I'm Mad At You.

Dear Blake,

We are coming up on the year anniversary of your passing. Time really has no meaning, because I swear you passed just yesterday, three weeks ago, and ten years ago, all at once. 

I've been feeling flat-out stuck. I ran the gauntlet, from my birthday, Thanksgiving, your birthday, Christmas, New Year's, and then threw in a little "20th anniversary of my dad's passing," for good measure. 

Basically, I'm down for anything to budge the stuck-ness, so I found myself at something you'd made fun of- a group breathwork session. The scene looks like something you'd find in a cult documentary, but I gotta say, laying there, breathing, rocking my legs back and forth, with my hands in a sort of prayer position on my forehead (no idea how or why I'd gotten into that position), absolutely SOBBING, full on ugly crying, tears running down my face, something inside me broke and rang out: I'm mad at you.

I wrote about how in the immediate following of your death, I'd put down my initial response, my default to anger, and turned to love and compassion first. It was- and is- I think, a very kind and humanitarian response. I'm proud of feeling the love and compassion, allowing myself to be loved and helped when I needed it the most. (I still need it often.)

But maybe I went too far, I suppressed too much anger. I tried to bury too much of what makes me who I am. 

And it took laying in a room, breathing loudly with a bunch of strangers, to hit on something I think I've buried: 

I am mad at you.

When you left, you took- in addition to your physical presence and all that entails- a part of my security.

We bonded, especially when you were sick, about how both of us had so many friend groups, from so many different walks and periods of life, but we both felt on the edges of them. We took solace in each other, and you took that from me. 

When you were sick, I begged you to see more doctors. To consider a feeding tube to bypass some of your issues with eating, to get a dental check up, not only for proper sleep apnea device fitting, but also because the condition of your mouth was deteriorating and I knew something was wrong. 

There's a phrase that refers to modern dating and relationships: If he wanted to, he would.

I know, you were tired and worn out from fighting insurance companies and doctors and being poked and prodded after years of being poked and prodded by immunotherapy and surgeries. But wasn't I enough? Wasn't our relationship worth a little more, to see if there was something lying under the surface that could've been fixed? That maybe, just maybe, you'd still be here, feeling better after years of struggle, as warm and exciting as the first spring day, with a pint and a smoke in your hand? Didn't you want it? Would it have made a difference? I have no idea, but it's one of those questions I'll always ask myself.

It's no secret that I was angry with you, and myself, for the days that seemed, to me, to be a refusal to help. Wouldn't help with dishes, the dog, laundry, cleaning, because "you weren't making things dirty." Yeah, no shit. I was making things dirty because I was also working two jobs, working out, taking care of the dog, running all the errands/doing all the shopping, and attempting to have some teeny tiny semblance of a social life outside of these four walls. I tried to get you to schedule a cleaning company, because you'd have to take the dog and go for a drive, or hole up in a room we wouldn't have cleaned. And you put it off. I begged you to grocery shop, I made lists, and I'd find out you hadn't felt good all day and didn't tell me you didn't go shopping until I'd gotten home. I wanted to take a break, take a trip, and you didn't want to come, didn't want to care for the dog solo, but also didn't want to board him or for me to hire a dog walker, which made me feel trapped, and even more isolated. And you know what, I'm still mad about it. It was HARD. I know you had it hard too, I know, I know, I've told you a thousand times, and you still never seemed to acknowledge how much *I* also had it hard. To you, I was complaining, when in reality, I was drowning and alone. 

I know, you were sick. I know you were trying. I know you still did nice things, like buy me flowers, or write me cute cards, or cuddle with me (which wasn't your favorite) and play with my hair because it was my favorite. But that doesn't change the fact that I spent multiple years on E, feeling completely wrung out and left to dry. And I'm mad about that, I'm mad at myself, and I'm mad at you, and I'm mad at cancer, and insurance, and doctors, and the whole fucking thing.

I joked after you died that you'd left me with EVEN MORE SHIT to handle, and I'm still here, a year later, with a mountain of records your brother would absolutely NOT let the kids bring home, a ton of super cool, rare shirts I can't bear to part with, a music graveyard, all your gear, a bunch of half-baked ideas on a million thumb drives, and your car in the garage, with a dead battery. Because we weren't married, I can't deal with the car, and everything else I can't bear to let go because it's like admitting that you're really not coming back, it's really been A YEAR, and my life has changed in so many ways, and also in none at all. 

I'm mad because when people ask me about my business, and why I didn't do XYZ last year, I have to tell them, and people look at me with these sad, misty eyes, or complete deer-in-the-headlights stares. No one knows what to say about death or loss or grieving, and I hate it.

I hate that I become something to gawk at, a cautionary tale or maybe just a car crash, but as much as it bugged me when people only knew me as "Blake's girlfriend!" and not Lindsey, it bugs me even more when I'm "Blake's widow." And as much as that one isn't REALLY your fault, I'm still mad about it anyway. 

I'm mad because I can't even get a hug every day. Even at your sickest, I might be able to coax a tiny hug out of you. Or you'd kiss my cheek or prickle my face with your beard. Now I'm left to forage for hugs at shows or on the boat, or at home, and hope the feeling can be stored away, like an acorn. Crab doesn't seem to enjoy my constant need for affection nearly as much. It's something I took for granted a bit; how do people live without hugs? I hate it. 

You understood me, you laughed when I was goofy- something I very rarely let other people see, you would crack jokes and laugh at yourself, give the dog new names, and you took it from me. 

You teased me often, because teasing was one of your love languages (its one of mine too). I remember coming home from 70K one year, you were teasing me about one of the bands and instead of letting me sleep, you stayed up in bed watching every single Napalm Records band video you could find, asking me if they were on the boat. We were hysterical by the time I fell asleep. You took that from me too.

This year, when I came home from 70K, I said bye as my friends went off to tour together, home to their partners, family, etc. and I came home to an empty, cold house, picked up the dog, and went to shows until I ran out of steam. I've done things, but I feel like a shell. I've gone days without speaking a single word, and we both know that's weird.

I'm mad because you left me in this fascist mess of a place, and while I'm so, so grateful you don't have to see it, or experience it, or reckon with what it all might mean, I'm mad I don't have anyone to talk to about it, to plan an escape with, or just to watch in awe and horror as things spiral more and more each day.

You left and it took a sense of my stability, my future, my comfort, my home. Ours. It was ours. And now it's gone, and I feel like I'm rebuilding with a bunch of pieces that don't seem to fit together. I look OK enough on the outside, but inside, I've lost a chuck of who I am and I'm not even sure *what I like to do alone,* now that I'm ALWAYS alone. I don't know how to change the house, I don't even know what kind of stuff I *like.* For someone who assumed she was self-assured, I feel adrift, like a hollowed out coconut, bobbing around, bumping into shit. All the good stuff's been taken out, it's just out there, drifting, until it bumps into something else and changes direction, with no real sense of where its headed, carried on by inertia and waves and gyres and the unseen things that keep us all moving, even when we feel stagnant. 

It's unfair. And I'm mad, outraged, furious, pissed off. And I've been so...whatever, that I buried that anger until it was strangling me. Couples fight, that's what happens when two people are together so much- and we can't even yell it out, slam any doors, go for a drive, I can't sneak my hand under yours, or send you a funny text, or put a hat on the dog to make you laugh. It's unfair to you, not here to defend yourself. 

I've never been one to suppress my anger, but I couldn't be mad at you for dying. I spent a lot of time trying to come to terms with it, to feel the grief and sadness and love and luck that I had so much time with you, to think of you as my confidante, my guardian angel...and all of that is 100% true, but it was also hiding something else.

Scratch the surface, apparently, and I am mad. I'm mad you left me here, alone. I'm mad I didn't get to say goodbye, I didn't even know goodbye was coming until it was too late. I'm mad I had to beg an Uber driver to please, drive faster, please, don't you understand? And it was too late. I didn't know when you called me, telling me you were high on morphine and feeling good, and we exchanged I love yous, that that was it. The last time we'd ever speak.

I knew I had love with no place to go, but now I have to find a place to put this anger, too.

I'm mad, and I love you forever. 

Lindsey