If I’m gonna be alone, then let it be with you.
That is how I will probably forever feel about him. He left me. He still kills me over and over again. He takes my heart, and he rips it out, he tears it in a million pieces and then flies back to the heavens with it. It rains back down from the skies and falls back into my chest again, where it belongs. Where it will stay until I finally join him in his death, in his hiding place, in his loneliness. It will happen one day, but I am a survivor, so I patiently wait.
I don’t remember how many days it has been since he died. I looked 3 days ago. I count it out, I ask Siri to count it out for me, I ask my husband to remind me, and then I look on the calendar to double check for myself. It has been a year and four months now, almost. Or more. Like I said, I’m not sure. All I know is everyday still hurts, some worse than others. I cry a lot still, but I try not to cry as much as the day before. Some days I don’t cry at all. It rains enough in Seattle to make up for the tears that I don’t shed. There is no drought here. There is no sunshine here. But, strange enough in this dark grey atmosphere, I have found some odd source of peace.
Sometimes I think that I deserve the clouds. The grey skies. I don’t deserve sunshine every day. I never have. I was not born for that. I was born to weather any storm. I was born to sail the oceans roughest waves, to show peace to the world, to give kindness, even if it means giving away my inner peace at times, I was born to slay the Jabberwoky. I follow that fucking white rabbit around as if he is going to show me the way. I can’t stand to be late for anything. I still try to be smaller and taller, and I always think six impossible things before breakfast. I’m a tough motherfucker. Some of that isn’t true, I will let you figure it out for yourself.
God, he was beautiful. I wonder what he looks like now. He would be so fucking pissed that he is in the ground. He never wanted to be in the ground. He wanted his remains to be spread in Malibu, at his favorite beach, with a little amount left on Sunset Blvd; on a day that the wind blew towards the Hollywood sign. I think it is a huge part of why I can not let this shit go. I think I feel that no matter how hard I tried to do what he wanted, I couldn’t. It was not my place. I was simply his friend, I had no say in where his spacesuit hang once he was done with it. Fucking silly to think that I could ever slay the Jabberwoky. I can’t even hold up my end of the deal when one of us died. I fucking failed that one big time. Sorry, no offense Jennifer, I know you did what was necessary and I respect that, so please know, I mean no disrespect towards you when I say this, but he would have been so pissed.
We were both eternally lonely.
I think sometimes we made ourselves feel that way on purpose. We had the entire world at our fingertips. Los Angeles, Minneapolis, VIP almost everywhere, endless supplies of whatever we asked for. Porn stars, bottle service, beaches, limo’s; Bentleys, enough cocaine and ketamine for more lives than they took from us.
Don’t do that shit boys and girls, it will fucking kill you . . .
and leave your friends standing there unable to recover from the loss of you.
And, most times, they will eventually kill themselves the same way, unless it finally sinks in that this life fucking means something. We have a reason. A god damn reason for being here. If you don’t know why you are here yet, figure that shit out.
Take some journeys. Take a road trip. Put some songs on a playlist and drive to California. Live there for a year. Understand the struggle, understand the addiction, understand the reason why everyone wants to go there. It sucks you in and you will either leave there wanting more, stay there and ride out the storm, or leave in a body bag.
L.A. takes the lives of the ones who are lonely. It’s a hell of a lonely place to be. The smell of Magnolias in the air, salt water touching your hair, homeless camps, poverty, movie stars, lack of dignity. It will all catch up to everyone at some point in their lives, but in Los Angeles and in Hollywood, it will smack you in the face and leave you wondering what in the fuck just happened. And then someone will ask for your autograph.
He died from a drug overdose. He died from suicide. He killed himself. He was murdered. He died from natural causes. He died from loneliness. We will never really have the answers to what he died from, all I know is he is gone and it doesn’t look like he’s coming back. And here I am, writing about him again. I try not to do it. I try to let it build up and escape in the night in my dreams. I don’t see him anymore in my dreams. I really don’t see him anymore at all. I guess when I packed up my stuff and moved to Seattle he stayed in L.A.
I think sometimes that maybe we cry to mourn our loved ones so that our hearts don’t stop beating.
I have felt my heart break more than once over him. Literally felt it happen. It is as if someone reached into my chest and just twisted my heart until it split open and let the pain out, and then I find myself on the floor in tears, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to understand why he fucking left me. I’ve never had panic attacks like this until lately, until he left me, until I moved to this rainy cold fucking city. There is not enough Ativan in the world for this shit, and it isn’t getting any better or easier. The pain is slowly killing me, and I keep fighting it, but I feel it consume me, and then I take the darkness and I toss it to the side like my laundry that I keep putting off.
I once thought it would be nice of his ghost to leave me alone. I was so wrong about that. I just want to hear that laugh again, see that smile again, I just want to feel him here with me again. I hold onto his headboard every night and say goodnight to him, and he never says goodnight back anymore. I guess it was time for him to leave this earth and start his new journey. I guess it was time for him to fly.
Tonight I stood in a restaurant waiting for my order and noticed the lady next to me on her phone. She asked someone “Tell me again what the last thing he said was?” and then she started crying. It wasn’t a cry like being sad, or breaking up with your boyfriend, it was a cry that was obviously the pain from the loss of someone she loved dearly.
I instantly remembered what that feeling felt like when it was fresh and new to me. I remembered what it felt like to feel as if everything was wrong and would never feel OK again. So I just walked over and held her. She held on so tightly that I thought she was going to rip my sweater. I let her cry, for minutes I just let her cry. I wish someone would have done that for me. I wish someone would have just held me and let me cry. I wish all those fucking people would have left me alone and stopped telling me what to do with his property, his apartment, his fucking shoes. None of that mattered. All that mattered was him. And in the very end I failed him anyways.
The story of us is a beautiful one. A mess, a beautiful disaster.
We only get so many chances in life, and I guess when our time is up it’s up, but damn it, I hate missing him. I just want to spend another day with him, but that would never be enough, it would simply leave me wanting more. I just miss him so much that even though the days have gotten easier in ways, this sorrow I feel inside of me cuts me so deep at times that I think it has claimed me as it’s own.
What I wouldn’t give for another sunset.
Another ride to The Abbey. Another brunch outside at K24 in WeHo on a sunny California day. I thank you my friend. I thank you for the memories, the lessons, the love, and the joy. But mostly I thank you for letting me see the real you and for letting me be the real me with you. You were a true friend to me, and you never let me down, no matter what you think, you never let me down.
Rest well tonight my Hollywood star. Tomorrow is a brand new day.
Photo credit: J. Hale/7950 W Sunset Blvd/2017