Dear Chad...

A good friend of my family committed suicide on February 9, 2008.

It's crazy and sad and I'm genuinely grieving him, and I think that the strangest part is that since I'm struggling to process something that makes no sense, I've done some of my best writing ever in the last week.

Here's the most artful one.





Eight days ago I was sitting on his floor staring at my dirty shoes and wishing that I was part of an elaborate reality TV show.

Last Sunday, I sat in my chair crocheting furiously because I desperately wanted to cry but couldn’t.

Monday I had to work but woke up wanting to make a strong drink and break things and scream.

On Tuesday I sat in my car on my lunch break with my head against the steering wheel praying that no one would see me crying.

Wednesday my immune system failed me, and the bronchitis set in-- it was almost a relief because when you have bronchitis, crying makes you cough and I didn’t cry because it hurt so bad to cough.

Thursday was the saddest, strangest day I’ve ever lived through, so far. It was driving to his funeral that the Matchbox Twenty song came on that I was singing to at the top of my lungs like I always do that it finally hit me and I had to pull over to cry. I sobbed during the funeral and wanted to scream and make a scene and make Rowdy stop ruining all my favorite songs. No, all Chad’s favorite songs. I wandered and paced through my parents’ house full of these people who’ve been around but scarce for most of my life, wishing that Chad were here, because he’d be the one pacing and uncomfortable but still unbelievably happy to see everyone.

By Friday the bronchitis had intensified and I finally made myself go see a doctor. I took medicine and crocheted furiously but this time, it was because only that focus, that constant repetitive movement, could slow the tears. I looked at pictures from the swimming hole this summer and realized that back at the spot we’d hike to to swim, he’d carved his initials in a tree. I don’t really ever want to go back there again because I don’t want to remember, but I want to go back to that tree just once. Just one roll of film. Just 24 shots of his initials on the trunk of that tree.

Saturday I was back to numb. I sat in the apartment, all quiet, not knowing what to do with myself. I drew up plans for a blankets I want to make for Chad’s kids and for Nikki. I thought of yarn and colors and patterns and wondered why, when I’m sad and feeling broken and empty and knowing that my friends and family need each other so desperately, I want to be alone thinking about yarn.

Today’s a new day. It’s Sunday again, and what I’m thinking about today is that Chad is the first person I’ve grieved over. Until this week, I didn’t understand what people meant when they said that it all comes in waves. Being so fucking pissed off that he left his kids, left us, left everything. Being so mad at myself for not going to see him. I went to Latham at least twice a month but it was always to see Phyl or Brian’s parents because I didn’t want to bother Chad and his routine. And then the sadness that comes on in the worst places--sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, walking through Target, speaking with my manager, watching movies on TV.

When I was young I was really in love with the book The Giver by Lois Lowry. I could read it in about an hour and ten minutes and for a while I read it every single day, for months. This book was really kind of sci-fi, but one of the things that struck me was that when one of their community members died (or Released, if you want to stay within the vocabulary of the book), there was no real funeral. What they did was chant the person’s name, at first loud and fast and all together, and then, over the course of time the chanting got quieter and further apart. That’s what this feels like. It’s what’s happening right now. Saturday and Sunday of last week was the fast, hard chanting. Every single thought came back to my friend, loud and furious and passionate. As time passes, it all still comes back around, but slower, more deliberate, and maybe, sometimes, a little less painful.

And there is guilt. Guilt that he’d started slipping and we, his friends, thought that surely he’d come out of it again. Guilt that I, who spent a lot of time with his kids, hadn’t been around for them much now that I’m a big, important grown-up with bills and a man and very little time. Guilt that of all the pictures I took this summer, all those shots of the swimming hole, with Chad very often taking the same pictures I was taking, the only pictures I have of him are on the funeral bulletin. Guilt that the way I process my thoughts, always, is in the form of writing, and since I have a computer, the processing often ends up posted on my page for all the world to see. Knowing that he wouldn’t want me to write about him, not on my MySpace, not on my other blogs, not anywhere on the internet. But I don’t feel guilty about that. He did this. I’m just trying to stay sane, and maybe help the people around me, while I’m here.

Dammit.

I miss you Chad. I miss you so much, my chest hurts and I wish you were here so I could punch you. And yes, I feel guilty about that, too.