February is tough. When everyone is celebrating love and infatuation, love is not what’s in my mind.
March is rough. When people are dancing around, claiming bonuses, when Spring springs, I feel the withering inside.
January, February, March. Q1 of every year, I’m reminded why I work in death. Why death hits home. His birthday was January, but he died in March. Her birthday was February, but she died in September. Her birthday was October but she died in March. His birthday was February and he died in February. Birth, death, love. Tragic loss. Zig-zagging through my first quarter of the year, breaking my heart open again.
But morning seems to always come.
Mourning seems to start the morning after… When the haze burns off and you’re left with truth.
I’m still mourning.
This week, this week this year, has been incredibly difficult. The son of my dear friend, who took her life 7 years ago now, turned 10 last month. He’s beautiful and smart and gentle and kind. And she’s missing out. I’m staying in the home of friends equidistant between where she jumped off a bridge and where her son sleeps. I’m drinking in that bridge, and that boy. He’s stronger than I. More compassionate.
Tomorrow is the 6th anniversary of the death of my best friend K-Rock, who overdosed in a Bronx apartment. The last time I got to feel his arms around me, where we had our last long talk in person, was a mile from where I’m sleeping this week. I am literally at the center of my pain.
Two nights ago, I spent the evening with the man who nursed me through that pain, who drank some of this heartbreak for me. And who still loves my broken heart. We were out catching up after years with no contact, celebrating the anniversary of a project we’d completed long ago.
A project that is the perfect metaphor for our amazing love affair: “Madness: A fast-paced game with no turns.” Its market differentiation was that it had stops built into the game.
Bittersweet. Celebrating the end of the Madness.
But really, we were getting closure. A different kind of death–the end of a love we’d shared, the end of the hope I had for reconciliation, the death of the memory. Painful, but necessary, in this season of tragedy. And I got to do what I wish I could have done with those I lost to abrupt death: the four things that matter most: “i love you”, “Please forgive me”, “i forgive you”, “thank you”. Just as he always knows to do, he gave me everything I needed. intuitively.
In July of 2013, he gave me something even more special. He took the time and energy to help me find just the right succulent to plant at the grave of my K-Rock. He took a shaking, crying girl through a graveyard for over an hour, searching for her best friend. When I was ready to give up without finding him, the man by my side forced me to keep going. He calmed my nerves, eased my pain, and told me it was worth it. It was 120 degrees outside, the sun beating down, and he was miserable, but he gave me what I needed. Intuitively. And we sat there, shoes off, talking to K-Rock until I could say everything I needed to say. Until I could introduce them properly. Until I could seek closure and find it. That day could quite possibly be my definition of bliss. I felt complete, unconditional love amidst the chaos. I learned what it means to hold space. And to be held.
Above anything, without fail, he was my friend. He was my shoulder while mourning all my other friends.
And yet. Last night, I walked out with closure. It is the morning after mourning. And I’m grateful for the shoulder, but I need it no longer. In the end, that death of the relationship, the hope of one, rather, was necessary for the dawn to break. And break it has.
What trauma therapy has taught me is that sometimes, we must re-enter a place in the past to feel all the feelings the place must teach us. So I am here, in the center of my pain, watching the sunrise come up after mourning. The loss never seems to lessen, but I can tell the pain will subside.
Good, bad, happy, sad, with or without shoes. Feel it all.
Preferably with a friend.