Some days.

Some days are just so. utterly. depressing.

I feel antsy. Like I don't want to be sitting at my grandma's house eating chicken, not because I don't love her, and not because I don't love chicken and mashed potatoes, but just because I can't bear it. I can't just sit there and eat chicken like everything is awesome. I'm antsy to leave, not because I have anything better or more pressing to do, but because I just can't keep sitting there.

I finished reading a depressing book, so to cheer myself up and shake myself out of the funk I'd read myself into, I turned to the internet. More specifically, to Mark Reads Harry Potter, which generally makes me laugh or at least smile. Except I'm currently to book five in his archives. Harry Potter and Everything Horrible and Angsty. So that's not helping, but I continue to read it.

I've come to realize that weekends are the hardest time. As a flight attendant, I had random days off. And maybe, on a Tuesday night, Eric would have other things going on, and it was a work night for him anyway, and so we wouldn't hang out, no big deal. But anytime I was lucky enough to have a Friday or Saturday off, there was no question about it: Eric and I would be together. Maybe we'd just get Wendy's and then watch a bad movie. Maybe we'd go bowling. Maybe we'd have friends in town. But no matter the plan or lack thereof, we'd be together.

Now I have every weekend off, and no guaranteed plans. No completely adorable boyfriend to brainstorm food options with. No slanty bed to spend the night cuddled up in. No sanctuary in which to escape my own house.

And it sucks. It just fucking sucks.

In general, I can handle being single. I can handle not having plans on a typical Friday night. But the fact that I had this amazing man, and he was torn away from me by a cruel, hidden depression... It's just not fair.

Also, as I came here to vent my uncontrollable angst this evening, I realized it is the sixth. It has been three months exactly. I'm sure I subconsciously realized that earlier, and it's probably the main contributing factor to my mood tonight. I wonder if it excuses the fact that I can't seem to stop eating today. Or the fact that I'm wearing my favorite dress shirt of his. It's so big on me, which is strange, because he was so skinny.


On a completely unrelated note, people google the weirdest things. And sometimes it leads them to my blog. They don't generally linger long, once they realize my ramblings have nothing to do with Joseph Gordon-Levitt's personal life. Ah, if only it did!

Dear friend

When I finish a book, I get what a high school friend of mine and I refer to as a "book high." It becomes my favorite book, and I want everyone I know to read it and share it and love it like I do.

I just finished re-reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.

It's funny how much your place in the world can change a book. I loved it in college, and I loved it this week as I read it, but it was an entirely different book each time. I feel like it's a very quotable book, and I want to tweet/blog/whatever all sorts of bits from it, but then I'm afraid they'll be less perfect out of context. This one, though, I've always loved:

So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.



I finally started to attempt to clean my room tonight, make it nice again, and in the process I discovered one of the reasons I've been putting it off: Eric is everywhere. Movie stubs, receipts from Beirut and The Source, a map to his brother's wedding with a handwritten note, my hastily-created anniversary card. And that's not even including the chair full of things I brought home from his apartment, the box of things so important I took them pretty much as soon as I could but now can't bear to look through.

Some days are great. Some days I just cry. Some days, like today, are mysterious combinations thereof.



Ha! You're going to think I'm lying, but as I was sitting here, looking at this post, wondering what last sentence I should throw in here, Ingrid Michaelson's Be OK came on mypod.

Thanks, universe.

Songs and notes.

Sometimes I think my ipod mocks me. Sometimes it tries to console me. Sometimes it knows just which songs to play for me to sing along to, happy or sad.

I've begun to think of T Sweezy's song "Back to December" as being from Eric. I was out running errands one day, and every time I got into my car, this song was on. And mypod wasn't even involved! It makes me feel better to believe that he regrets it, that he'd go back to December and change his own mind, if he could.

Ingrid Michaelson's "Be OK" came on in my car one day. It's a song I got from Alex one day when I took many songs from his computer. I love Ingrid, but had never heard this song in particular before. It was so upbeat and happy, and I fell in love immediately. I put it on repeat for the rest of my drive home. It's become something of an anthem for me. I'd put some lyrics here, but it's just not the same without her and the music. So, here - go listen to this.

And here's the thing: I do know that I will be OK, no maybe about it.


Other noteworthy items:

- I begin training for my new job in the morning! I will be the best-dressed bank teller you ever did see. Have I mentioned how excited I am to never have to wear my FA uniform again? Or how equally excited I am for blouses and sweater vests and dress pants? VERY. EXCITED.

- We had a few days of spring, and the sun came out and melted our snow mountains, and now we're in the midst of a winter storm. Oh, February. Thanks for dumping snow everywhere just as I have to navigate my way to a new job downtown. Much appreciated.

- I went out with a big group on Friday to celebrate a good friend's birthday. We drank, we sang along loudly at the piano bar, we put her on stage, we drank more, and we danced up a storm at the 90s. I felt sexy and confident in my little black sheath dress. It was just what I needed. And then it got more interesting: I let a tall, charming ginger buy me a drink. Now I'm that girl, waiting for him to call.... Except, if I'm waiting too long, I have his number, too. And, guys? I think I might use it.


Life is weird, but it goes on.

By the Numbers

I'm 25. I'm a divorcee and a widow, and I never even got to walk down the aisle. I got all of the heartbreak, and none of the binding legality, none of the titles that give weight to the pain.

I'm afraid I'm going to be 90, on my deathbed, still in love with a 26-year-old. Still talking to him, still missing him. Still trying to find his scent in his old shirts.

And I'm afraid I'm not. I'm afraid I'm going to forget him, am forgetting him already. I'm losing his scent, his voice, his laugh. The way he spooned me, the way his stubble felt on my chin. I'm terrified I'm going to lose him all over again, more than I have already.

Before it was decided that I'd take all the clothes, there were a couple of specific shirts I knew I wanted, so we dug through all the laundry baskets to find them. Everything got mixed together, the order of it destroyed. (Believe it or not, there had been an order before we got to it. Kind of.) Dirty socks were mixed with shirts were mixed with towels. Now, when I pull a shirt out of the basket to smell, I go to take a big whiff, and instead of Irish Spring, Old Spice, and that indescribable Eric-ness, I get a big whiff of socks. Not so comforting.

Most days, most times, I block him out. It's the opposite of what I'd like to be doing, but it's the way I get through the day without crying. If I don't think about him, I don't cry. If I don't picture his face, I can't miss it. If I don't try to remember how it felt to hold his hand, I can't long for his fingers in mine. If I don't let anyone see how sad I am, I am not this sad.

We had been together for one year, two months, and five days.

He's been gone for one month and five days.

I don't know the hours. I just know it was the sixth, and I have a hunch it was earlier in the morning than anyone began to worry. I know he called his voicemail at 3:29am.

Chris called me at 3:47pm. And somehow, as soon as my phone rang, I knew. Because we'd been texting all day, and why would he call me if something wasn't terribly, horribly wrong? My whole life changed in those 2 minutes and 28 seconds.

I was watching the news one day, and they were talking about our most recent blizzard. Apparently, it's the most snow we've had since the infamous Halloween blizzard of 1991. (The fact that I was in Texas that year and thus missed the blizzard makes me feel like I lost out on a key piece of Minnesotan-ness. True story.) "Yes," the anchorman said, "we'll all remember where we were and what we were doing during the blizzard on December 11."

I furrowed my brow, checked a calendar, and verified what I suspected: I didn't immediately remember the blizzard, because the weather that day was overshadowed by a funeral.

But yes, the blizzard was large. It prevented me from having a luncheon with games and friends. It got me stuck at Chris and Alicia's with a group of very nice people who were nevertheless not the people I wanted to be with that day. It made me worry about everyone who was driving anywhere, any distance; I made my sister text me when they got to their hotel, two miles away. It made Jess and her large truck get stuck in a snowbank. It even brought the Metrodome's roof tumbling down.

One month ago today, we had a huge blizzard. One month ago today, I gave away two meeples, permanently. A slightly more exact month ago, I was writing a letter, the only person left awake in a quiet house; the cat at my feet was annoyed by the light.


I decided on a New Year's Resolution. Something a little more tangible than "have a happy year." Something I can do even if something terrible happens again. I've decided to write something happy down, every day. A sentence, a paragraph, whatever; just something happy, something good that happened that day. Because even on the worst days, there IS something good. So at the end of 2011, I will have a list of 365 good things.

Today, I didn't leave the house, didn't do any laundry, didn't apply for any jobs. Bad.

Today, I finished my Rock Band solo world tour on medium. Bad ass.

New Year.

In addition to the multitude of random woot shirts, the dirty socks, the stacks of random cd mixes and mystery burned dvds, the scribbled notes, the boxes and boxes of games, I inherited something kind of awesome: Eric's xbox.

Except, I don't really do video games. I never had them growing up, and I lack most of the eye/hand coordination necessary, despite playing piano and violin. First-person shooters are not so much my thing, and I'd rather watch other people kill zombies than do it myself.

When Derric and I lived together, he had an xbox. I'd sit on my computer and watch him explore weird places, sneak around, or shoot zombies. He'd offer to let me play, or to play in teams, but I had no interest. Until he bought Rockband. Then I played along. Then I learned the controls. Then I waited impatiently for it to be my turn in a large group. Then I even played for hours on end while I was home alone.

So with my Christmas money, I decided to buy myself the one and only video game I know I love for my new-old xbox. Unfortunately for me, they don't make or sell Rockband bundles anymore. Luckily for me, they do sell them online and at Gamestop. I now own Rockband, Rockband 2, and the Beatles Rockband bundle. These are the only games I own for my new gaming system that I barely know how to work; I had to text Aron to find out if I can use any usb hub or if I had to buy a special xbox one (you can use any, in case you were wondering).

I rang in the new year with my sister, her roommate, her sister, my cat, and Rockband. It was snowy and icy out. It was a small gathering, but a good one. Mellow, but rocking. And I didn't even cry at midnight (though I did post on his facebook wall. At midnight.).

And now it's a new year.

I'm not quite ready for a new start, a clean slate, whatever. I mean really, it's only been a month. But there is something about a new year. Something refreshing. People making resolutions, a whole year of possibilities ahead, an empty calendar just waiting to be filled in.

One of the blogs I read occasionally is Pioneer Woman. She lives on a working ranch with her rugged cowboy husband. She cooks, she's a self-taught photographer, she writes, she homeschools. She's just pretty all-around amazing. And she does crazy giveaways all the time: camera, mixers, Le Creuset cookware. She just did her last giveaway of 2010, in which she gave away a really nice Nikon dslr. To enter, all anyone had to do was post a comment answering the question, “What is your top New Year’s Resolution??” I wrote this:

In 2008, I made the resolution to take at least one picture every day. At the end of the year, I would make a nice photobook: My Year in Snapshots. It would include my college graduation, my wedding, my move to Arizona with my new husband. I did really well, until July, when my fiance called off the wedding.

I do always have my camera in my purse, though, and I take pictures often. 2010 was going really well; I wasn’t taking a picture a day, but I was taking lots of pictures on lots of days. Until early this month, when my boyfriend died suddenly. I don’t think I’ve taken a picture since.

My resolutions for 2011 are simple. I’d like a new job, a new apartment. But above all, I’d like to have a year good enough to take daily pictures of. I’d like to have a happy year.

Oh, also, I quit my job.

I hope you all had very happy New Year's Eves and Days!

Christmas?

Another week. It feels like a day; it feels like a year. Time seems so random right now, so arbitrary, so fluid. Complicated at the moment, of course, by the holidays.

Despite everything, I did manage to have a good Christmas. I baked many cookies, I hung out with family (and I actually love and get along well with my extended family), I smiled for pictures, I ate much foods, I got nice presents, my presents were well-received. I wore black. I made perhaps the best batch of meringues I have ever made. I got some good after-Christmas-clearance deals. Mostly the family, though; my cousins are terrific.

At one point, my grandma held my hand and said, "I'm sorry about Eric." Hugs, sad eyes, and the words 'I'm sorry' make me cry instantly. I nodded, trying to keep it together. She continued, "It always happens at the wrong time of year, doesn't it?" I whispered a 'yeah' and nodded, squeezed her hand, and walked away to breathe. But, really? Is there ever a good time of year for your boyfriend to kill himself? No. No there is not.

Eric and I had talked about what to get for his brother and sister-in-law for Christmas. He ordered some games online when they were having a big sale, with recipients to be decided when said games arrived. I don't know if he had decided on something for mem (he never says "mom," it's always mem, even written in texts.). But he had my gifts.

Over his birthday weekend, he gave me a couple of them, since they were there and we usually get too excited to wait to give each other things. I got a nerdy board game with 100 wooden camel pieces - very similar to my birthday present of a nerdy board game with plastic camel pieces. He gave it to me and said, "You have a new collection, that only I add to, apparently." The other gift he preceded with a warning: "This is just a toy. It cannot be used in gameplay. It's just for fun, a joke. Okay? It cannot be used in the game." Then he threw a blue plush Carcassonne meeple at me. (Standard game meeples are wooden, about a half inch tall. My plush meeple is, I don't know, eight inches? And plush. And adorable.)

The third present actually arrived in the mail on Friday the 3rd. He had the day off of work, and we were lounging about his apartment when his buzzer rang. He went down to grab the package, and immediately brought it into his room and out of my reach. Naturally, I hounded him about it. "What is it? Where's it from? Is it for me? Is it pretty? What is it?" I had told him previously to buy me something pretty, and pointed out some things in the Kohl's black Friday ad that I liked.

The first time I went back into his apartment, after, it was there. Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, edges of the box lined up with the edges of the table. It had a post-it note on it, "For Cindy," and a tiny, handmade Christmas card.

In the Kohl's ad, I showed him simple necklaces, some blue topaz, "diamond" stud earrings, dangly earrings. I showed him the topaz and said, "these are pretty, I like blue, but I prefer sapphires. Sapphires are my favorites." Mem eyed my finger and asked what my ring size was. I laughed and told her, "Four and three quarters, but yeah right!" He ignored that exchange, my sweet robot. He told me on black Friday that he was able to get some shopping done online that day, despite having to work. "I think I did good. I hope I listened to things right."

In the box was a pair of beautiful sapphire studs. I put them on the next morning, and haven't taken them off since. They are the best Christmas present, and I can't even thank him. He did good, though. He did good by me.

Dream

It's been two weeks.

I picked out a casket. I wrote a letter to be read at the funeral. I picked out clothes for him to wear. I proofed the memorial folder (apparently the little paper cards that are at every funeral ever have a name. I wish I didn't know that.) and made a couple of changes. I called pallbearers. I picked and printed pictures for photo boards.

I went to the apartment. (His apartment? Our apartment? It feels like home to me, anyway.) I packed boxes. I sorted through piles of mail and receipts. I took possession of all of his clothes, most of which are dirty. I took the sheets off of the bed, threw away our pillows, and left the bed by the dumpster, where its slantyness can hurt my back no more.

In a weird way, going through his apartment, sorting, packing, was like a girlfriend's dream. All of his stuff at my mercy, and it's not even called snooping, it's just something I had to do. I got to read his scribbled notes, throw away his melted utensils, fold his towels the right way. His clothes are mine to wear or throw away, the toothpaste cap will stay clean, the heat will no longer be a point of contention. I finally have a set of keys to his place.

It still doesn't seem real. I still cannot wrap my mind around the fact that he's gone. I still talk about him in present tense. I planned his funeral, I emptied his apartment, I did all of these tasks and I still don't believe it.

I wish it were just a dream, instead of my living nightmare.

Rules

Right before Eric and I started dating, we were brought together by our mutual friend's birthday celebration. There's much to be told about that weekend, but let me start with this tidbit. There was construction happening on Leah's road, and when I arrived in the afternoon, I had to drive directly toward a huge pile of dirt. It looked like I was going to meet a dead end, but I found her road, and all was well.

Later that evening, Eric was driving a couple of us drunk ladies back to Leah's place. He saw the pile of dirt and panicked, wondering which way he should go instead. I assured him that he should, in fact, drive directly toward the huge pile of dirt, where he would find the road, and all would be well. It turns out, though, that construction changes throughout the course of a day, and the pile of dirt was in fact an obstacle.

While we dated, this little incident came up often. I'd tell him a piece of misinformation, or assure him I was right about something, and he'd just scoff and say, "Sure, drive right into the dirt. Trust me." This morphed into Rule Number Two of our relationship: Trust me always.


For the last twelve days, I have avoided the elevator in Eric's building. I have gone into the apartment, I have laid in his bed and cried, I have sorted through papers and cleaned out the fridge; but I have not gone into the elevator.

Until today. Today we moved furniture, we took out many loads of garbage, we emptied the fridge, we made sure every cabinet and closet was empty. Today I had to go into the elevator, because I just can't carry a bed down three stories, can't move most of an apartment's worth of stuff with only stairs. So I faced the elevator. And it was fine. But it did remind me of our Rule Number Three: Always kiss in the elevator.


When we first started dating, Eric still lived in Duluth. Our schedules happened to be such that we both had Thursdays and Fridays off. Given our living situations and the fact that I drove a fuel-efficient hybrid, I made the trek to and from every weekend so we could see each other. At the end of the visit, as we said goodbye, he'd tell me to drive safe, he'd kiss me, he'd nod awkwardly and say "yup," and he'd say two words that quickly become our Rule Number One: Don't die.

Nuances

internment - noun. 1) the state of being interned; confinement. 2) the act of interning or state of being interned, esp of enemy citizens in wartime or of terrorism suspects. 3) as modifier - an internment camp

interment - noun. 1) the act or ceremony of interring; burial.

Very close, and often confused. I myself had to look them both up, after seeing "interment" all over at the funeral home and figuring they of all people wouldn't spell that word wrong.

I'm not convinced the difference really matters anyway. They both seem like torture to me.

Selfish.

I'm feeling very selfish. I want every scrap of clothing. I want every dish I saw him eat out of, every mug he stirred his Swiss Miss in. I want to be the last one to touch his face, the last to look at his casket. I don't want anyone playing his beloved nerd games, for fear of losing even a single piece.

Today, in his memory, we were supposed to have a post-funeral luncheon with games. Yesterday we went to his apartment to gather a selection to play. We left with three boxes and a duffel bag full, and we didn't even take them all. Unfortunately, thanks to a massive snowstorm, most people ended up simply heading home after the funeral, and some of us came over to Chris and Alicia's, Eric's brother and sister-in-law. We did play a couple of games; some people played dominoes, four of us sat down to play Pandemic.

I have never played Pandemic without Eric. I didn't know how to set up the game. I didn't know the best move to make. I didn't know which character I should play as. And we couldn't even win the game, despite trying our best against it twice.

I sat with his family at the funeral. I was mentioned in the obituary, and multiple times during the service. There was a section where they read letters/thoughts from his immediate family members: Chris, his mom, his dad, and me.

This family has taken me in, claimed me, adopted me, turned me into the daughter-in-law they thought I would eventually be. It's amazing.

It's not enough. I need more. I need everything. I need Eric. His smile, his clear blue eyes, the face he makes after he makes a pun (hey guys, look at me, I'm funny!). The shirts that smell like him, the socks that are still dirty, the comforter I hated a week ago.

I stupidly, wrongly feel that other people's grief takes away from my own. Friends that I never got the chance to meet have stories from years, decades ago; I want them to be mine. People who barely knew him shed tears; my eyes go dry. Or maybe I just want to be strong in front of others? I barely cried at all yesterday, even during the hours-long visitation. Today was not so strong. Today I broke down, sobbed at the front of the chapel, had tears on my face the whole service (except during the part Eric would have hated). But again, when the crowd gathered at the house, my eyes ran dry. As soon as everyone but family left, I started crying again.

I still can't believe he's gone. It doesn't seem real. How can it be? How can the man I hugged and kissed a week ago be impossible to touch now, forever? It just doesn't make any sense. Does not compute.

Is it wrong for me to blog about this? It's therapeutic, anyway. I've been so lost, bearing my grief in silence, that it feels good to get some words out, any words. I can't talk to anyone. How can my grief compare to that of his mother? His mother, who lost her baby boy. His mother, who raised him and loved him and let him go to live his independent, adult life. And how can anyone else's grief compare to mine? (I know this is not true. I cannot know the depth of anyone's grief. I am positive he has friends that are hurting as much as I am, if not more. But these are my selfish thoughts.) So there is nothing left to say. (Also not true. I could talk to anyone, I could say anything, and they would listen. But this is my irrational grief.)

Things. I'm so fixated on things. I want to hold onto every piece of him I possibly can. Why? Why am I so fixated on things? What I really should be doing is recording memories. The time he looked down at me and said, "Oh, how do I not tell you you're beautiful?" The first time I saw him bowl. When we stumbled into his living room on October first, and he pulled me down onto the couch with him, and I suddenly got nervous and asked what other stories he had, and then he was kissing me for the first time. When he pulled me close and kissed me well, for the last time. When I came into his apartment and the pocket door was closed, and I walked around to find the table set, a candle lit, dinner cooked on the stove, and a fake mustache on his face. When I spent the day puking my brains out at his mom's house, and he came in, knelt by the bed, and brushed the hair off my forehead.

These are the things I should cling to. These are the moments that will comfort me.

For now, I'll wear my new sapphire earrings, cling to my plush meeple, and find a nice shirt to smell.

Words

There are no words, and yet I have so much to say.

My incredible boyfriend, Eric Kessler, passed away unexpectedly on Monday.

My heart hurts. More often than not, my whole body is shaking. It feels like my sternum is collapsing in, like there's a black hole inside of me. I stop breathing. For about an hour yesterday, I shut down. I reached the saturation point of my grief, and there was nothing. No words, no talking, no thoughts, no tears. Just staring into the pattern of the rug, with a sweet cat curled in my lap, licking my fingers, trying to help.

And then, after a few brief hours of numbness and anger, it all came flooding back.

Sometimes I go for hours, making decisions, contributing, crying, but plowing through. And then he pops into my head. I see his face. And I remember. This isn't some stranger I'm talking about, not some distant friend. This is Eric. My Eric.

And I break all over again.