thejunipertree: (Default)
It's not very often that I am found at a loss for words. All weekend, since the wee hours of Saturday morning, I have been opening my mouth to say something, to make some kind of definitive statement other than one of only shock and pain, but it doesn't quite seem to be working. This is discomfiting and I don't like it one fucking bit.

It doesn't help that my brain is a complete maelstrom of emotions and the clinical side of me, the one that is learning all of these fancy new learnings, is constantly nattering on about disenfranchised grief and the stages of mourning.

I want to cry and break things that will smash with a satisfying glass shattering sound. I want to upend copious amounts of whiskey down my throat and I want to sleep for a thousand days. I want to scream and hug every single person I love. I want this constant prickle of tears that's set up camp behind my eyes to just go the fuck away. I want my friends to stop looking and sounding like pale ghosts of themselves. I want this hurt to go away. I want this guilt to go away. I want all of this to have never happened.

But, it did happen. It did. He's gone. And no matter how weird all of this seems, that's reality. He's gone and he went in one of the shittiest possible fashions ever.

Earlier this evening, I wrote this to Ella:

I severed my physical and social ties to J., but I never stopped caring about him. He pissed me off beyond all rational thought and it hurt far too much to be around him anymore, but it didn't change that I still considered him family, as I consider all of my friends to be my family.

Sometimes, especially now with what's happened, I wish I hadn't done it. There were times that I missed him so badly that I had my hand on the phone to call him and tell him that even though he was acting like a tremendous tool, that I still loved him and maybe when he pulled his head out of his ass (and I pulled mine out of my own, trust me, I don't 100% blame anyone for my actions), that maybe we could try to be friends again. But, I let my pain and selfishness color my brain and take over my feelings and I never did it.

And it fucking hurts like hell that I never did it.

That's my own cross to bear, however, and my own emotional mine field to be navigated. Changes like that blow hard and cold and I'm not anticipating the coming months with much eagerness.

All week, he had been on my mind. Things would come up in unrelated conversation that reminded me of him, like talking about the days of investigating Byberry or retelling the story of meeting an ersatz William Burroughs one drunken night in a 7-11. And my iPod was doing that thing that seems so creepy in retrospect, constantly playing music on shuffle that reminds me of a person. Ministry. The Revolting Cocks. Pigface. REM. Over and over again. It was still doing it on Saturday afternoon. I drove to work with Burning Inside cranked up to ear-shattering volumes and didn't even realize there were tears on my face until I glanced in the rearview mirror. Wemble had the same thing happen to her; she wanted to find a place that had good Vietnamese food and thought to herself, I should get a hold of Jim, I bet he'd know a place.

Was the universe trying to tell us something? Why wasn't I fucking listening?

I don't understand this. None of it seems right.

Blackjack, you jerk. If you were shooting for the gold medal in the Asshole Olympics, let me tell you, you really did a goddamn bang up job of it.

I'm sorry that you felt like this was the answer to whatever was seething inside of you. I'm sorry that we never reconciled. And I'm sorry that I didn't make it clear to you that even though I didn't have the emotional fortitude to be in the same room with you anymore, that if you had called me, I would have been there in a heartbeat. I probably would have put my boot in your ass first, but I would have been there for you.

I'm just so fucking sorry for all of it, everything.
thejunipertree: (wobble)
Another funeral. This one, tomorrow morning.

Eugene, if you had lived through this, I'd have fucking killed you.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Funerals aren't for the deceased.

I just thought I'd make that mind shattering
revelation, that I'm sure all my jaded, nihlist
friends are already quite aware of.

Funerals are selfish institutions. No one there
truly care about what the dead want. They want
what THEY want. What is going to make them feel
better/less guilty.

I've discovered this evening that Henry, my
friend who recently died this past week, his
funeral? I'm not allowed to attend it, as per
his family.

And I think that's utter bollocks.

The attendence of his friends would be too
"upsetting" for his family.

So, where's my fucking closure huh? How do I get
to say my goodbyes? I wasn't planning on busting
into the place in full on Sexxxy Deth Chyx garb
and doing a complete voodoo ritual.

I just wanted to go, say goodbye, maybe get a
mass card to remember him by (as I have jack all
else to do so with).

I'm so pissed.

When I die, ANYONE is allowed to come to my
funeral. And I want one of those huge, riotous
New Orleans style ones. With the Dixie band
playing dirges in the street. Even if I hated
you, you're allowed to come. And I want Nick
Cave's "Lay Me Low" played.

Final fucking demands, you miscreants.

Some of his last words were "Don't let the
Catholics bury me."

When I have my own funeral home (and that's not
even a joke, I plan on this and am going to
start attending school next year for it)...

I lost my train of thought.

And I'm too pissed off to try and catch it again.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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