2013 24 May :: 8.43 pm
:: Mood: lost
:: Music: Snow Angel - Mike Patton
Things should be perfect. I wish they were.
Almost 6 years with Luisa, and she somehow still loves me. Sometimes I wonder if I love her enough to make it even. I wonder if I can love anyone enough.
My friend committed suicide three months ago. I've been mostly torn up and confused since then. I remember a year ago when he showed up on my doorstep, he crawled into my arms and sobbed, and I held him for so long. His best friend had shot himself, using his gun, and I felt that heart wrenching guilt and frustration pouring out of him. I didn't think I'd need someone so soon to do the same for me... Hold me as I sob, thinking of his lifeless body hanging limp from a noose.
I got really drunk that first night. I drank. I screamed. I cried until my whole body felt numb and my throat ached. I vomited everything up I tried to eat, from the sheer emotional overload of pain and sadness. My friend. MY friend!
I guess I shouldn't be saying "him", no, that's not right. She. She. She. Her. She was trans. Her name was Lydia. She had a son, a girlfriend. We smoked pot and got drunk and played video games. We laughed so hard. We went to furry conventions in Pittsburgh even though she hardly knew what they were. But that was okay. She beat us in Dokapon Kingdom and we all plotted against her to make the game even again, but I guess we never got the chance. Ha... I guess that's okay. There are these little bits of data that are just her, lingering in strange places.
I remember the night she sat in my laundry room, after taking a gravity bong filled with that crazy legal shit, her face turned blue, and I held it between my fingers, straightening her airways as she convulsed and tripped absolute balls. She talked about it later, like it was some sort of life altering place, a place where she had to push through each of us, the people that meant the most to her, until she broke through the other side and was free. Each of us. Surrounded by shapes and a kaleidoscope of colours. I almost pissed my pants because I thought she was going to die, and she was having a revelation. Me and Luisa look back now, and we wonder just how much that time effected her, Lydia. If maybe it helped seal the deal, if somehow it showed her a way to cope or something she needed to reach again.
I had asked her to come hang out a week or two before the whole event. She had a new girlfriend, me and Luisa assumed she was just honey mooning, and that she was too busy. She kinda blew me off, and I just let it slide. Oh oh oh how I wish I didn't shrug that off. How I wish I had said "C'mon man, seriously I haven't seen you in weeks, you need to come hang out, no excuses." Why can't we ever say the things we need? Why do we fuck up over and over?
I know it wasn't painful, she did it slow, a loop of rope tied to the knob outside the door, tossed over the top and down. You just have to lean into it, just a bit. Not even much. Everything gets fuzzy, soft around the edges, and you pass out. In that moment you go limp. You lean harder, you hang, no air, no blood. A death you just... flop into. She was wearing a suit, the best clothes she had. She had a date, an important one, and she wanted to be dressed for the occasion.
Apparently they found her early enough the next morning that they could use her organs. Supposedly. I'm not sure. I often wonder if some day I'll see someone with her eyes. Will they give meaning to the loss? Will they finally give those eyes a beautiful new outlook on life?
We were the first people she told about being trans. She wanted desperately to transition, but with custody battles over her son and a religious family it wasn't something that came easy. We were here for her, we have other trans friends, and we supported her in everything. Sometimes I still come across mtf links online and have to shake myself because I'll go to her page to post them, only to realize she can't see them. Isn't that weird? Isn't that cliche? I never thought it'd be real life, to just... Not remember someone is gone.
I think that's the hardest part. It's those little moments, when we're in the pool and I remember her face, her laugh, the glint in her eyes when we'd get drunk and stumble around in the water like fools. The videos of us laughing around the hookah, sitting around in our boxers like it's just the naturalest thing that's ever been.
I took a bunch of pictures of her the last time she was over. I wanted to use her as references for my artistic endeavors. Those pictures kill me now.
They burned her body in a box, put her in an urn. Her mother wont release the letter she left. Her mother has mostly just gone insane, shunning everyone who meant anything to Lydia. Religious hatred is the only thing keeping her alive, I'm sure. It breaks my heart to see Lydia's facebook being altered, but I guess it's something that can't be helped. You can't hang on to things like that anyways.
Lydia... Hm. Lydia... What a beautiful name.
I've thought a lot about suicide lately. I got really drunk last night, got in the pool for the first time since her death. Hell, the first time since the last time we hung out. I took off my clothes and howled at the moon. I slept in a tent with my friends. I kissed one, and felt like sobbing. I don't know what sort of person I am.
I've got a gf, practically my wife. I've got a job, I just got promoted. I go cycling every other day and close my eyes as the trees blur by. I'm alive by all means, the best of means. And some days I'm filled with fear, with hatred, with bitterness and overwhelming sadness.
It's been three months, and today I listened to the song she left on her phone. She deleted almost all the pictures and videos, she left two of us, me and her. A few more. She set the phone to go off about every hour, the song "Born to die" by Lana Del Ray. I don't know why, but I listened to it today at work in the office. I just sobbed, I'd never heard it before except the haunting sound of it coming from her phone that night when I held her girlfriend as we all cried. I could imagine her sitting there, setting the alarms, listening to that song over and over again. The worst part is that I could see myself doing the same thing.
I don't feel very well. I'm a drunken mess, and I'm so depressed. I feel so alone. I feel like everything hurts and everything is hopeless and I don't know why the world is this way. I don't understand and it brings me to tears, and makes me sit alone at night, staring into space, just feeling the ache in my chest.
My heart pours out, and the droplets slip through my fists.
In The Face.