Dear Blake, Three hole punch

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. 

The Body Keeps The Score, and Mine is Losing

 The Body Keeps The Score, and Mine is Losing

CW: Talk of death 

This guy  Bessel van der Kolk wrote The Body Keeps The Score about the ways in which trauma affects the body. 

In a way, I already knew what happened. I'd received a few phone calls asking about medications Blake was on. The calls got a little more frantic, and I was frustrated because even if I teleported to the hospital in that moment, there was no way I could (or would want to) see him while the nurses and doctors worked on his tired body. The people at the desk had a hard time locating him. And I knew. In my body, I knew.

When I made it to the hospital to say goodbye to Blake, my first thought was that the nurses were playing some kind of joke with me that Blake was in on. We'd been going back and forth about him trying to do a little more around the house. "Alright, I get it, you're SICK-SICK, that was mean!" I'd say.

Dear Blake, I promise this is about you.

 Dear Blake, 

I promise this is about you. Well, it's about us. And me. And my new reality.

Your service was beautiful, by the way. Adam and Josh and the whole Soundstage crew made it possible. I know you'd tell me I could count on them to handle everything. As far as memorials go, it was nice. There was a great turn out, tons of people texting and checking in, and sending photos. 

Your uncle told a random anecdote in the MOST Southern MD accent and he basically stole the show. More than one person asked if I hired him. Nope, just...very clearly your family.

The whole day was kind of a blur honestly. I know I would gripe about being at shows and being ignored or minimized because I was "Blake's girlfriend" and not Lindsey, while people circled around you and sort of, it felt like many times, begrudgingly tolerated me. But being in your shoes, not being able to take three steps without someone talking to me was also challenging. I never considered what that might have been like for you. I know you relished it and enjoyed it, but damn. That was hard.

(Not a complaint, friends reading. I am grateful to everyone who came, I am so glad for everyone I spoke to, and I am sorry I couldn't spend hours with everyone there. I am much more introverted, much more awkward, far slower to warm up to people, and much shyer than Blake. My memory is also absolutely garbage right now, so it was a challenge to remember....anything. This is an observation of my experience and our personalities, not a judgement!)

Dear Blake

FWIW: This is our actual first photo together and I *HATE* it. I don't remember what led to this picture. I know we'd met VERY briefly before, but I felt like I knew you already. You never left. 

Hi Baby,

This goes without saying, I think, but I miss you immeasurably.

When you passed, I promised myself I would write or blog to you all the time. I'd capture every memory to look back on fondly. And I haven't.

It's not from lack of want, I promise. I want, more than anything, to document every memory. The truth is, everything is a Herculean task.

Bringing my computer down here took *effort.* Waking up takes effort. Sleep takes effort.

And every moment is marked by your absence. 

I wake up, smack dab in the middle of the bed, buried under blankets. Normally, I'd be tucked to one side under a sheet. You're not there.

I leave, there's no one to kiss good bye softly as I slide out the door.

I Miss My Dad: The Unknowable

 

My mind is never-not-buzzing. There’s a constant hum in the background of everything, pestering, probing. The only time it is silent is when I am doing high-volume merchandise. Something about the chaos, the camaraderie, the attention to detail, is some sort of giant, pulsating STOP button on the thought-gnats constantly buzzing and procreating.

As much as I think, I feel. The news is a minefield, sending me into a rage spiral or an endless depth of sadness. Another murder. War in Sudan. Mass murder of Palestinians. Mostly children. Animal shelters overflowing with unwanted pets. Another woman…no, a child, forced against her will to carry a pregnancy to term.

“Children carjackers! The new DC threat?! At eleven!” featuring a steely faced white man arguing that these children need to be locked away for life. Absolutely no reflection on what’s causing the problem. All punishment, no prevention. A shallow answer for a shallow society.

Seeing an unhoused man yelling on the street triggers both fear and profound sadness…fear because he is much larger than I am, and seemingly unwell. He could easily corner me, harm me. And sadness because he does not deserve to live like this. Somewhere along the way, people have failed him. Maybe he has failed too. But he does not deserve constant human cruelty, nor the silent treatment from passersby, nor the hunger, nor the instability, nor the cold.

As our very fabric spirals and folds in on itself, so too does my brain.