I honestly didn’t think there was anything left to break. I was wrong. Today was the hardest so far. I thought it couldn’t get worse than it was already. The grief, I mean. The mourning for my friend. He played the drums, you know. He was a drummer. There’s some texture of his personality for you.
I dreamt last night without sleeping. Half-truths washed over me, just thick enough to for their whispers to be loud enough to hear: he was still alive, my family was whole again, I was happy. Then I would open my eyes, covered in a light film of sweat and the pain of awareness. Lies. All lies.
It didn’t help that I had a tri-tip in the crockpot. Whenever I cook in the night it triggers deep childhood memories of being sent to bed early while my mother was cooking. As a chronic insomniac, I was always sent to bed too early. Hours too early for a little Seer. I spent many long nights staring at the walls telling myself stories, waiting for sleep to arrive, three or four hours later.
So today I am exhausted. Physically and emotionally wrought. I’m congested, the way I get when I’m too tired. I’m just burnt.
And so sad. Overwhelmingly sad. It is a physical manifestation of sadness, like it’s in my fascia or my bones. It is so deep inside me, I feel it with every small movement, every turn of the head, every deep breath. I look to the left and I feel a weary sigh escape me. I shift in my seat and the tears roll down. It is somehow physically imprinted on me and in me that he has died, he is not coming back, he suffered in letting go of his life, I have lost him, his family will continue to suffer, and nothing is going to make that better.
I feel extremely helpless in this, and guilty for feeling sad, which I know is irrational. Sadness is appropriate in this context. It would be a little crazy not to feel sad right now. But I feel like it isn’t an action, and it isn’t helping anyone else. I have so much to be grateful for in this moment. I’m still sucking air, still have the use of my limbs. But I can’t feel the gratitude. All I feel is sad. Overwhelming sadness.
Cooking feels productive, so I cook. I make beans. Meat. I grate six pounds of cheese to make enchiladas. I don’t know who I’m feeding. I don’t feel like eating. It’s like I’m feeding an imaginary wake, one dish at a time.
I miss you, man. I fucking miss you.