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.

Dear Blake, Numb

you + a sloth

Dear Blake,

I really intended to write much more regularly. 

Normally, emotions and words swirl inside of me until they're practically clawing at my lips from the inside (fingertips?), eager to spill out. 

And they did. I wrote a lot here. I wrote notes to you every day in my phones calendar. Until I ran out of words. 

Not just words for you, just so you don't take it personally, because it's not. 

I went to a few writing workshops, a space where I've never been at a loss for words, and sat there, staring at blank pages for two hours. That's never happened. 

I've gone almost completely numb.

The Witness: The Rolling Waves of Death

 The Witness: The Rolling Waves of Death

TW: Death, dying

Everyone's heard that grief comes in waves.

Sometimes it comes as a small nudge, surf breaking over shore, a small reminder that it was Blake who usually did this chore, or skipping the ice cream aisle entirely, because there's no one at home to eat it all, reaching for my phone before I realize there's no one on the other end to appreciate my observation.

Other times, it's a riptide. It comes out of nowhere, dragging me under, leaving me gasping for breath. And as any good Floridian knows, fighting it will only result in drowning.

The nudges are constant, gentle saltwater lapping over my feet and ankles, sometimes covering my shins or splashing up to my knees. Sometimes surprising, constant, but tolerable.

The latest riptide came in pieces. 

Dear Blake, I saw another body

 

You and Crab in my favorite hiking spot

TW: Death

Dear Blake, 

It's 3:30 am. I can't sleep. 

I saw another body today. 

Can you believe I made it to 35, blessedly (if you will) never having seen a body? And now, just in the last two months, I have seen two. I skipped the viewing at every service when I was growing up. My father was cremated. 

After the first time I rescued a bird, gently pulling it's tiny, fragile legs from a glue trap, I found more injured birds. At a wildlife rehab, the woman told me I would find injured birds forever. They had marked me as someone who could be trusted. Is this how it will be with the recently deceased? I am not sure I am ready for the responsibility. 

But let me back up.

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. 

Dear Blake, I blame the Theraflu

 Dear Blake, I blame the Theraflu

Dear Blake,

You know I usually have vivid dreams. They got more vivid when I started Zoloft again. 

But for the month after you left us, I didn't dream at all. 

It was a mercy, I thought. 

I knew it was only a matter of time before I had a dream about you. Meaning, I'd be seeing you in a way I couldn't control, couldn't explain, and would undoubtedly be so vivid that it felt real. 

Thursday night, I was feeling like garbage. You know I've been having random body aches, back pain, racing heart...the boost in seasonal flora also led to a boost in mucus. I've had the grossest, drippiest, post-nasal drip. The kind I can feel in my throat. It's swishing around in my lungs. In the morning and before bed, I have a hacking, disgusting cough. My entire body hurt.

Anyway, I took a Theraflu. I was desperate. And it worked, I slept 14 hours and woke up feeling less like I'd been hit by a motorcycle.

I crashed around 7 pm, half-waking around 3 am when I heard the blankets moving around next to me. 

"Oh, good, you're finally home." I thought, barely awake. "I've been worried." 

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.

Grief in the Age of Social Media

Grief in the Social Media Age

TW: De*th, su*cide 

I am, unfortunately, no stranger to grief. Although we could be considered old acquaintances, each time she visits is newly and uniquely horrifying.  I wrote a post about a girl in my high school who died, and the falling out with best friends over the years. All of those stories were complicated, like I was not complete sure of my role, the amount of acceptable grief I could feel, especially for those living. 

But grief, the literal and infinite result of loving someone who is no longer on this plane, she has returned.

Both of my grandfathers, my dad, and my grandma died when I was in high school within a roughly two year period.

My father passed when I was 16. He died by suicide. It's still not acceptable to talk about, people have accused my father of being selfish, of being weak. While he certainly could be those things, he was not. Losing someone to suicide does not make their death less tragic, somehow. I'd argue it makes it MORE upsetting, to be to that point, but I digress. 

I was 16. We had a complex relationship (that I have written about). I remember telling people it was an accident, only telling people I was very close to his true cause of death. I didn't want the judgement, the weird blend of pity and relief, to know that their own loved ones would surely pass of natural causes, many, many years from now.

It wasn't until adulthood that I started talking about suicide, walking in The Overnight, getting a suicide prevention tattoo. 

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.

Day 1: 30 Days of Words

Day 1: 30 Days of Words
Joy and Gratitude

An NPR piece on Friday was discussing dealing with grief. Sometimes, I think back on all the people I have lost and feel like an expert in grief. Others, I look back and think it would have helped me to know more effective coping mechanisms.

The show mentioned some studies that show we can effectively retrain our brains- whether we are coping with a loss or not. By focusing on the things that we are grateful for, or that bring us joy, we can train our brains to focus on the positive, joy-bringing things, rather than dwelling on the shit that holds us down.

The program people suggested writing down three things, each day, that bring us pure joy, no matter how small. Here's a few things that bring me joy: 

1. My dude kissing me goodbye in the am

2. A perfect cup of iced coffee
3. When my cat snuggles up against me
4. My fave sick death metal riffs

5. A business breakthrough or new idea
6. Getting or sending a handwritten letter in the mail
7. Seeing my road dogs on tour
8. Coming home and my dude is cooking us dinner
9. That pure look of joy when you go to pet a dog
10. Reading a book so beautifully written it makes me cry
11. A stiff breeze during bootcamp
12. A perfect fitting pair of pants (way more difficult to find than you'd imagine)
13. Speaking to an appreciate audience (public speaking is awesome)
14. Getting on a plane to an exciting destination
15. Clean sheets on the bed

What brings you joy, my friends?