Conspiring Grief

Yeah – I feel it. I feel it coming… 

It still gets me, in the middle of the night, dammit it still gets me. I can still wake up from a dream that you’re alive. I have to lay there and convince my subconscious that you’re dead. That you’re not just pissed and not speaking to me. That you never would have gone this long without talking to me, even if it was a fight – silent treatment was not your style. Yeah, the hope that you’re alive still gets me. 

What do I remember? The truth really is…

I remember Christmas. I remember being happy. I remember laughter and presents. I remember working hard to make Christmas special for the boy’s, even it if meant very little sleep on Christmas Eve. I remember thinking that we could work through things and that we could be happy again together. I remember dropping you off and not thinking I’d never see you again. 

I remember New Years – I was stressed and I made some off handed comment that I just wanted to skip the whole thing, and we fought. I remember you going out, and me calling (and calling) to find out where you were so we could meet. I remember you meeting someone else. 

I remember January 10th – and our last conversations with each other. You and I both know it was not the thing of love stories. Those that knew us in those moments can remember our individual heartbreak because it was all falling apart. Things were said on both ends that hurt, deeply hurt. There are so many details about that day. I remember loud voices, and tears, from both of us. There are things I do not want to remember but I hold on to, so very tightly, because it is truth - it was us. 

I remember Thursday. I remember going to class, I had three back to back in those days, undergrad. I know it was the first week of my first internship. I remember being in class from 9 – 1:15, and at about1:30 I get a call from your mom because she has not seen you since the morning. I really thought that call was from you, and that we’d be okay after some time to cool off. I remember going home and hanging out with the boys. I remember falling asleep on the couch and walking up to my mom’s voice, “Ari, get up – get up – he’s dead” And though I remember the next few moments, they’re in slow motion, they don’t seem real. I called Mona – she’s crying, “Honey…the police are here…he’s dead (unimaginable pain and sobs).” Me – “I’m on my way.” I drive, shaking, - I missed my exit on the freeway. Your mom’s house is hours of words, first formal “time of death was around noon” then mumbled. I remember being there for each other and the first start of an obsession for answers. 

I remember trying to tell Detroit, since he would not remember I figured it would be best to try these words across my tongue with him. They wouldn’t come. All I could say was, “Your daddy loves you, SO much.” I cried, and he hugged me. I remember I waited a day to tell Victor so I could be with him over the weekend. Oh how I wish I didn’t remember that conversation. I can see him sit down on that couch an innocent boy and leave wounded more deeply than any 5 year old should be. I would punch you in the face for that moment, if only I could. My first real act of aggression on someone else, and you would say you earned it. 

There is my truth. It is not pretty, and it’s not even the story I tell myself, or others. I use the word fiancé when I speak of Austin because it is the only word that gives weight and depth to our relationship. We know it wasn’t true – that we had called off the engagement month’s prior – that we fought on the phone during our set wedding date and time. That everything came to a point of “I love you, but I cannot have you here unless your straight – so get straight.” I have also, in time, stopped lying to myself in thinking this was an isolated incident. I admit, here now openly, that I was frustrated with him. I was everything opposite of love towards Austin. Love really is the only cure for isolation; it’s the only space bigger. For a long time I was disappointed in myself for not showing him that love more. I wailed over it alone for hours countless times because I have always loved him – and I always will. I was sure everyone blamed me as much as I blamed myself. 

What I realize now is that while it is nice to receive love from others, we are never full until we receive it from ourselves. You’ve heard this before; Lord knows I’ve wrestled with the simplicity of this statement. Our lives are not saved by the love and kindness we have received from others, our lives are saved because we were kind and loving to ourselves. In the depths of all the darkness we face we are typically alone, at least in the times that matter. No one should have to burden the guilt of “I was not enough to save them” – ever. That is a dangerous place to be. It is equally as dangerous to believe that we are powerful enough to save each other. I willingly choose kind-sight over hindsight. I am forever in debt to those that showed me how to be kind and loving towards myself, even when it hurt, even when I did not believe I deserved it – thank you for fighting for me, even if it meant fighting with me. Thank you. 

Austin was a warrior - that took a long time for me to be okay with saying. He struggled with himself right up to the end. If he had some other sickness, like cancer, it would be accepted that he died – that his pain was over. Suicide does not promote these feelings. The feelings that come with suicide, from my perspective alone because it is the one I know and feel comfortable speaking on, are feelings of anger, disappointment, regret, shame, guilt, disbelief – and well…nothing positive. I fought myself, still do it seems, with the “why” of it all. Now those that know death, in any form, realize that these feelings are not exclusive to suicide. Since I have not experienced every type of death personally I cannot speak to the “which is worse” – can’t they all just hurt? Is it really about the “how” of someone’s death that defines his or her life, or gives credit to the pain of the loss? 

I spent the first anniversary of his death in class, specifically a trauma and death class. How fitting - said with the biggest smile and warmest thoughts. I remember not taking time off of school – and though it may have seemed like I didn’t care, that his death did not effect me, I hope you know differently. I simply was not in a position to make a decision about school, so I stayed the course so to speak. I give a lot of credit to school, being around social workers, for my ability to heal. School created a safe place where I could tell my story, again and again. I was constantly asked, “How do you do it?” like I had some magic answer for them. I didn’t get it but these people are rock stars, asking me questions that made me find my own clarity instead of giving me platitudes and looking away in horror. One such moment my truth hit me, I didn’t think about the words but I heard them after I said them…”I allowed so much of Austin's life, and his addictions, to dictate my own that I refuse to let his death do the same.” That was the moment things shifted, that I saw my own strength like it was standing next to me. Sure, I wanted to quit. I wanted to rent out jet skis to tourists in some tropical island far away from others pain, and hopefully my own. I knew that was not a reality for me, and that is simply not how life works. If you want to run away from the pain the best way to feel better is to turn towards it and fight yourself to not look away – fight like someone is trying to beat up your mama! Seems crazy, seems like it’s the harder thing to do but those are lies we tell ourselves. So, I fought – thought I was going to die, and at times I wanted to, but I didn’t. 

Grief is a big scary darkness, regardless of how it comes into your life. Every time it comes it brings new ways of making you hit your knees. There is no magic way out of the muck; I have no answers for others. All I could ever hear for myself was, “Do whatever it takes to make it through, but make it through.” 

Yeah – I feel it. I feel the anniversary of your death coming. Will I think about you more that day? No. I will think about me more that day. I remember so many things about what I was doing, where I was, who I was with. I will remember those things at various times on the clock. I now know what time you left the house, and what time you died. The day seems colder, but that is my doing – January 12th is always cold anyway. I do not need an anniversary date to remember you because I remember you every day, every day. I need an anniversary date to remember me, the who that I was before you died. A day to mourn the loss of myself, and a day to welcome in the me that I have become since.