Dear K, Part 3 of Many

Dear K, 

Outside, I hear the rain. I used to love the way it washed the world, and how all the colors bled together in light bursts until everything was beautiful. But now it feels like a giant version of sadness, like all the world is crying for you. And I'm crying for you, tonight. My heart holds heaviness, a leaking bag of sand limping across the landscape of relics of us; all these ways I miss you:

I miss the way you turned your eyes on me with a hint of a smile, the way your lips curled up just before you'd do or say something to make me laugh. The way you'd do anything to get me to laugh when I was down. I'm missing how if you were here now, first you would hold me. You'd let it be one of those long, lingering hugs, tight and safe. I'd bury my face in your neck and breath you, feel the softness of your skin again my face. And then you'd rub my sides a bit, and look directly into my eyes, searching to see if whatever was wrong had been set right. 

And that was the most magnificent thing about you, to be so in tune that my body language was louder than my words and I seldom had to tell you when something was wrong. Where are you tonight, when things are so very wrong? Where have you gone, Lovey, now that I feel so empty and alone? There is guilt in this heavy heart of mine, wanting to heal but feeling badly for wanting it so. My mind wants my heart to fall out of love with you so we can find happiness, but my heart is yours and yours alone. And everyone says words that mean so little like time and heartache and grief and these things that mean an everything that feels like nothing at all. I'm sick of the blandness of life. I'm sick of the way things look the color of honey: blurry with the kind of slow stickiness that blends together entire days in a mire of forgetfulness.

I am bad at life now, Lovey. My drive is less than half what it was when I was pushing towards the best life with you. My desire is only to get by, only to do something just past the basics to keep from suffering too much. They say these things will pass, that there is no time table for any of this and I hear it and that is fine. But this is just a long stream of conscious when all I want is the comfort of your arms. My head is pounding, threatening a monumental migraine. My skin has gone to shit, lost weight, gained it, lost it, gained it. All of this is shit. Just a big steaming pile. 

How could this have been what was for us, Lovey? How could it? I hope this life passes easy and quick so that in the next blink of an eye I can ask you these questions and you can answer and we can try again. Oh, to be able to try again. I have to believe that is possible. I have to. 

With difficulty and love, 

Leppy

Dear K, Part 2 of Many

Dear K,

I felt you near me tonight. I could tell it was you because of the sudden warmth on my skin, like the way you used to come up behind me and wrap your arms around me. The way your presence enveloped mine, and how you were slightly, perfectly taller than me. And I could very nearly smell you, and there was a smile there for a moment carried by a memory: us in Whole Foods, smelling all the natural deodorants until we found the perfect one (because you were so careful with what you put on and in your body). You know I have been in Whole Foods exactly once since you died? And how I still hate those words that go stabbing through me every time I write them? And that my disbelief still roars so loud I rush to cover my ears before I realize it's all coming from inside me?

Oh Lovey, it's been weeks since you have visited me. Why is that? I imagine because it has to be, because there are some great laws of God or metaphysics or the universe (we still aren't on speaking terms, the universe and I) governing all of this in something like a pattern. Something like reason and sensibleness.  I imagine it's because I have to figure out some way to  go on, and how can I go on if all I'm doing is holding on? You had this thing for honesty and integrity so let me tell you true: my mind is rarely on anything but you. All day, every day. All the things I want to tell you. All the things you would find funny or ridiculous or sad. All the times I want to ask you a legal question because I was so impressed at all the knowledge you had from law school. Simple things. Artifacts of our life.

I like to imagine you would be touched by all the things I've written. You were always my primary subject, all the little poems that popped into my head during the day because of how I loved you. How you loved me. The time I stood up in an nearly empty basement in the Student Union and recited the slam poem I wrote for you, about how you were my Adonis and how beautiful you are. How beautiful you were. You are. Past tense is wrong. I don't care. I don't care if I can't hold your hand or kiss you or see your eyes or wear your hats. I don't care if the only way I can hear your voice is an accidental voicemail not even meant for me, or if I'll never get to buy you shoes or hats again. I don't care about any of that because you are not past tense to me. You are here. I feel you and you are here.

I didn't set out for this to be sad. I didn't set out to be crying yet again, or to have my heart to be humming with the way a bird trying to break a cage might. I just wanted to write you a letter because I felt you and I wanted to say hello. Just that simple thing so many take for granted. Hi. Hello. How are you? I still love you. And so I'll sign off with a little missing poem for you, that you might see these words in whatever way you see things now and hold them with you where ever you are.

I'm remembering all the little ways you loved me tonight.
I'm remembering things easy simple,
the smells and soundtracks of our lives,
the imprint of your person on my couch from years
of existing right along side me,
the way you used to flick my fingernails--
drove me crazy but felt like some tangible part of me for you,
before you realized that you had all of me--
and how hard was never nearly hard when you made me laugh,
and when didn't you make me laugh?
and things that are so tiny they aren't even memories
but shy glimmers and shadowy sparks,
and how I never knew I was beautiful
until I was beautiful in your eyes,
and all the ways you made me feel fearless.
All these tiny things I hold now,
and offer back up to keep you
warm and comforted in forever.

Always,

Your Leppy


Music: Ed Sheeran – Give Me Love

The Emptiness of Survival

In the week between the accident and the funeral, I experienced a profound shift in self. This is probably not a surprise; frankly I was in shock. I probably still am, to some extent. I hardly ate or slept that week. I was surviving, and in many ways not very well. I think you have no choice, in this place where you have become unrecognizable to yourself.

I was surprised by the weeks spent unable to look at myself in the mirror. In Judaism we cover mirrors for a period of time in mourning; I asked my dad why, but he didn't remember and I never got around to looking it up. I didn't cover any mirrors, but I wondered if perhaps that had something to do with it. I should probably just Google it. I do know that every time I would look at my reflection, I would start to cry. I think it was because I recognized I wasn't really there, and there is something intrinsically horrifying about seeing the absence of yourself. I've written about the experience of emptiness and I suppose that's what I mean. My body is present, my mind is on autopilot and capable but my heart and soul have dug deep and buried themselves. I would like to say they are protecting me from this, but I think they have abandoned me. They are cowards, hiding away so far from the surface. We are, I think, tumbling through life a ball of confused emotions unified by heart and purpose. So when heart and purpose are missing, what are we then? I'd rather like to know.

So I believe in zombies. You might laugh at me for that, but honestly, how else can I describe myself during this time? A human robot, serving base needs. Surviving. How is that different than a zombie? Next time you see someone in Grief, look closely. Look for the plateau in our eyes, the dull sheen of exhaustion and profound weariness brought by having to exist another day, broken. I think there is a certain mutedness, a stillness that floats about us like a cloud. So the question then, how to go from surviving to living?

I think I currently bounce between surviving and living, but more on the living side of the line. From my experience, these are the things I know to be true:

Those who are Grieving lack nourishment. We need to eat richly, we need the sustenance of companionship and caring that comes from a real meal. The kind where you sit and lose hours in conversation and memories, where you start thinking, it doesn't feel like it takes a village, more like a whole fucking army to push us the tiniest bit back towards ourselves. If you find us, the Grieving, know our selves are gangly and sprawled, so gather us up and hold us in your presence, feed us as much or as little as we can eat, but do it over and over again. We cannot take care, and so you must, if you hope to help us heal.

Those who are Grieving do not sleep. We may lay down and close our eyes, but it is only hours in which we can retreat from the world and further into ourselves. We need to sleep deeply, and remember how to dream. When K died, I lost my dreams and that is how I knew I was truly lost. I think I dream maybe 45% of the time now, just over 2 months later. Before, I used to remember every dream I had. Every single one. I used to dream lucidly, controlling my subconscious state and moving from one dream to the next. It was pretty cool, and provided a source of inspiration. So the cutting off of my dreams has been like cutting off my oxygen, and I am left breathing shallow. And to be honest, I don't think I know how to really sleep anymore. And for those of us who are not sleeping, well,  I don't know how to tell you how to help. I hope that one day I will find true rest again, and that I will dream. 

And then there are the things you may do that we cannot: listen to music, watch TV or movies, lose yourself in the ease of conversation and the carelessness of good humor. K had a deep relationship with music, and many of the musicians I came to know and love were introduced to me by him. So these days I listen to artists he would not have, or music that speaks to where I find myself. It's the same things on repeat, over and over. There's a kind of the routine to listening to the same songs on repeat and it gives me one thing I can rely on, unlike my arc of emotions.  K and I watched a lot of TV, so I don't really watch much anymore. It just doesn't matter to me. So many things just do not matter.

To the Grieving: there is a way to stop surviving and start living again. This is a truth because it has to be, because we remain and because we owe it to those we have lost to do what they cannot. And more so, we owe it to ourselves and those who stand by us in this most difficult of times. And mostly, because the other choice, the choice to merely survive, is no choice at all.

To those trying to help: I say what I have said before and will continue to say. Forgive my repetition, but I have heard of people being cruel and impatient (not to me, but to friends who have lost loved ones). And maybe you don't even realize you are, but things are hard enough. So, please be present for us because it is likely we are truly absent. And if we choose to share, listen. Do not lecture, do not judge, and perhaps do not even offer advice. Know that we try, as much as we can, and that each day will be a different kind of hard or easy. 

But mostly, love us. Love us in all ways minor and obvious, in ways that are familiar and new and maybe a little uncomfortable at times. Love us more than we are currently capable of loving ourselves.