July 31, 2009
“Monday day could work well! Where’s good for you? I could come down to Raleigh, you could make the trek to Chapel Hill, we could meet halfway in Duke country…or we could surprise Ethan and make a roadtrip to Texas.”
Two years ago today, George died. I’ve written a few posts about it, I think. Today was just…difficult. It was hard. It was mentally a challenge to face the day. Go into work. See people and not want to scream. I dressed in light colors, thinking that would make me a bit more cheerful today, but I started tearing up as soon as I got on the bus this morning.
George and I never met for lunch during the summer of 2009. We put it off and put it off and then, he was gone. I found out George was gone in the most brutally awkward way possible: by seeing a sudden influx of pictures and updates and notices about George on my facebook newsfeed.
While social media is fantastic, it is probably the worst way to find out that one of your best childhood friends has died.
I frantically messaged the afore mentioned Ethan, a super close friend of George’s and friend of mine from childhood as well, to find out what happened. It was most unfortunate.
My life has been interesting, for lack of a better word. It has been spotted with death, not only in my career choices, but in my personal life. I can no longer count on one hand the number of friends and acquaintences who have committed suicide. I am not proud of this fact, and this has caused me to be more than a little jumpy when I notice people becoming more withdrawn, or sadder than usual. Walking around thinking that any one of your friends, at any possible moment, will just off themselves and no longer be with you is not a comfortable way to live.
A little less than two years ago I wrote George this letter. I sent it to him (thanks, Facebook!) and of course, any time I go to his Facebook profile and click “Message,” it’s still there. But I’m afraid one day his Facebook profile will disappear. And I don’t feel much different today than I did when I wrote that message. And I like to share awkward and weird things with you, The Internet, because I feel like one day, someone will see these things and know that they mean more to people than maybe they realize, and know that people out there love them, and need them, and would hate the world without them.
I will shit myself if he ever writes back.
February 22, 2010
I’m still having a really hard time with this, I think we all are, and if passed experience has taught me anything, I will always have a hard time with this.
There’s stuff all over Facebook about how today is suicide awareness day, and I’m pretty sure everyone you’ve met and who feels the loss of you doesn’t need to be anymore aware than we already are.
There is so much that I will never get to say to you, and so much that I regret not being able to. Dude, you lived so fucking close to me and we never got together, just kept pushing it off.
Wherever you are, I hope you’ve met up with my friend Andre. I imagine he’s showing you the ropes. He was an awesome guy. Troubled, but there for you in a pinch. I like to think he found you right away because I know he watches over me and he knew your name from when Ethan called me. This is how I deal with you being gone. You’re with another friend who made me more aware than I wanted to be of life and death.
You know after Andre died, I had to quit working at the funeral home because I hate having to deal with people who were so upset their old relatives died. I was a huge dick to everyone. And the my first autopsy when I got back to the hospital was a suicide by gunshot, and I couldn’t fucking handle it. After that, everyone I saw down there felt like someone I knew, and someone I needed to help.
Talk about a weird complex.
I don’t know why I’m going on like this. I just want to talk to you. I’m not trying to change the past and nothing I could ever say to you could change your mind. I’ve been telling myself that since Andre died. I don’t believe it yet because I’m an idiot and I still think I can fix everything, even when it’s obviously broken. But I don’t think you were broken. I don’t know. I guess we’re all a bit broken?
You keep popping (for a minute I thought I typed “pooping” and that is weird and possibly also accurate) into my head and sometimes I close my eyes and see you walking down the street or something, lumbering, slightly bow-legged, or at least growing up. You kept me sane (or passable for sane) in high school and I’ll never forget you. I have so much more I want to say but I didn’t even mean to go on this long and I have to leave for Raleigh in a second anyhow.
Find Andre, if you haven’t already. He’s like 5’3 or so, light brown hair, glasses I think, fit but a bit stocky. He’s a great guy and you two will hit it off.
I seriously can’t end this without sounding superqueer. I love you.