I never really understood the phrase, 'waking up on the wrong side of the bed,' because I figured, it's a bed, the limited spacial dimensions leave very little room for there actually to be a quote-unquote 'wrong side.' That being said, I woke up in a very weird mood today. I was fortunate enough not to have to work until noon, leaving me plenty of time to ignore an alarm and still wake up with time to meander about my kitchen, peruse breakfast options, watch two episodes of early "Saved By the Bell," and the beginning of "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2," and still have time to shower and get ready for work. Throughout all of this, something just felt, for lack of a better term, off.
Almost nine hours, three emergencies, countless lognotes, and god only knows how many 'Thank you for calling, this is Dori, how can I help you' responses later, I still felt off. It wasn't until I was driving home with my ipod on shuffle, randomly skipping through songs, hoping to find some sort of connection to the myriad of music choices when it finally hit me. Dispatch's "The General" came on and it all started to make sense.
It's been three years since he left and part of me acknowledges the loss, misses him, and learns from the mess he left. The other part of me is angry, still confused, wishing we were closer, wondering if we were that there might have been something I could have done. Nonetheless, I drive the fifteen minutes and how many seconds ride home, trying to keep it together enough to maintain control of the car, all the while hoping my eyeliner doesn't smudge and cause my eye to burn.
Despite my history, and despite the ability to understand how a person's thinking can get to the point of "it's better this way," I don't get it. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how alone you feel, there is always at least one person who will miss you. One person will be hugely and deeply impacted by your absence. And that one person has the unbearable task of feeling plagued that they didn't do more. Feeling like they're abandoning you when they move on with their lives. Feeling guilty that they have a life to move on in. You left. You made that choice. Three years later and we're still coping with that. Thirty years later and we'll still be coping with it.
Immediately following, there's the obvious outpouring of affection and sympathy, people desperate to find a connection to you to feel like they're a part of something greater than they're own meaningless worlds. Everyone who was ever even remotely near you recounts some story. "The Ho Trap," Dance Co., "The Pit," your brown jacket, your all too perfect smile. I remember pennies spelling out "I <3 U" outside my door. I remember creepy "Seven days..." phone calls after watching "The Ring" in the mezzanine in BT freshman year. I remember watching you play in the snow, running up a mountain the plows made in the back parking lot of Mark Hopkins, laughing like a little kid in a snowball fight. I remember trying so hard not to forget my lines when you were stage manager of Emily's senior director class presentation of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." I remember you, beautiful, delicious, sweetly mischievous you.
I know how it feels to think that nothing you do is right. I know how it feels to think that it would all be better if... I know how it feels. But I'm still here. I'm still fighting. No matter the pain, no matter the sadness, no matter how god awful it hurts, there is always a reason to keep fighting. What I will never understand is why you stopped, why you gave up. If you saw how many people came to your memorial... If you saw how many lives you really touched... If you could understand how much you truly meant..
Three years later and I'm still trying to understand.
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