April’s always a hard month. March is all smiles, all birthday month glee, and then April hits like a tornado, uprooting all the things I’d thought were secured. It’s a pattern now. Spend the first six days of April weighted with grief, maybe crying, maybe not. Maybe drinking, maybe not. It’s spent thinking, playing it over, a continuous loop of slow motion heartbreak. Sometimes I’m angry, sometimes I’m not.
Twelve years ago tomorrow my friend dropped me off after school and threw himself off an overpass.
I was 16. So was he. Our birthdays were neighbors, his on the 11th, mine on the 12th.
This year I realized that soon I’ll have lived two of his lifetimes. That I’ll have lived half my life since his death.
Every year is different. You’d think I’d stop feeling the need to memorialize it all, to let my memories push me down darkened alleyways, but it’s been 12 years and I just can’t.
I can’t imagine not talking about it.
I can’t imagine not publicly declaring that suicide hurts the people who are left standing, that it leaves scars on the inside, that it’s life changing, life wrecking, that it hurts beyond words, that even if you don’t think you’re loved, you are and that even if you don’t think you can handle it, you can because you’re beautiful and strong and brilliant and because I will hold your hand.
I can’t imagine not taking a day to write it out, to sit with his memory purposefully and think on it, taking the time to do nothing but roll my feelings around and reflect on it all.
We visited Notre Damn in Paris. I’m not religious in any traditional sense of the word, but visiting Notre Damn was a surprisingly moving experience for me. I lit a candle for David there, wishing he’d had the chance to tramp around Paris and London, to live a full life, to be okay.
Rest easy, my friend.