I was leaving a comment on someone’s blog yesterday and became curious to know more about some of the other commentors with whom I was unfamiliar. Upon clicking on their gravatars, windows opened up to reveal lists of other blogs using the same spam protection service that they frequent. I was curious to know what blogs would make up my list, so I clicked on my own gravatar and immediately was hit square between the eyes by Jamie’s Yellow Suitcase Tumblr blog, at the top of my list. Before I could stop myself, I clicked on the link. I hadn’t visited the site since before we took the trip.

I was assaulted by her – her image, her voice, her laugh, her memories, her predictions. I read how many times she flippantly mentioned dying or having a coronary, as we all do in dramatic fashion, and I could feel the synapses in my brain disconnect one by one. I listened to her recorded memories that are mine as well. I saw things I’d never seen before. The reality of her loss slammed into me with the force of a ballistic missile. I was shaky and near tears for the rest of the day. If I’m honest, I’ll say I am still.

by SwEeTie/flickr

It isn’t like this hasn’t happened before. I’m reminded of her every single goddamn day. I wish I wasn’t. I really don’t like the feelings the memories stir. But I don’t like the alternative either – that I’ll forget.

I’m reminded of her when I look at the table on which one of her favorite photos sat until it was too much for me to see. I’m reminded of her every time I open my TweetDeck and see certain people in my stream. I’m reminded of her every time I wear her boots with which her mom preferred to bequeath me rather than send to a thrift store. I’m reminded of her every time my chest tightens or I twist my ankle or I think about Ireland or traveling or curbs or books or friendship or bacon or…

Thank goddess I’m no longer in an environment in which I also get mistaken for her and called her name. That was a torture I cannot even begin to process, months later.

by photophilde/flickr

Sometimes I hate her. She made me see a brighter world only to abandon it without revealing her trick.

Sometimes I wish I’d never known her. Then I wouldn’t have to feel this debilitating sadness.

Sometimes I think it should have been me instead of her, because she appeared to do and be and live with so much more skill than I feel I possess.

Sometimes I think her death was my fault, because I’m the one who suggested turning that corner and stepping up on that curb over which she tripped.

Sometimes I think I no longer have any right to grieve, that still feeling so much after so many months makes me crazy. I certainly feel crazy when the overwhelming need to sob continues to take my breath away. After all, I wasn’t family. We hadn’t been friends for a lifetime. We’d known each other for two years. TWO YEARS. That’s all. That’s an Associates Degree.

by scarbody/flickr

How can I possibly still be trapped in the web of her?

I can still see her falling. I can still hear how we laughed about it, and how she admonished herself for her clumsiness and how I got irritated with her, but said nothing, for taking pictures of her ankle to post on her blog rather than taking the aspirin I gave her.

I haven’t gotten to the point where I can remember her, or our friendship, or our moments spent together and laugh. Ironic, since so much of our time was spent laughing.

by awfulsara/flickr

I don’t know what it will take to shed this second skin she passed off on me when she passed away. What I do know, however, is that I’m pissed as shit that I’m still wearing it. I’ve done everything I know to do to get it off. I desperately grabbed onto a job as my lifeboat and then almost drowned when it sprang a leak. I turned to sex, to food, to therapy, to writing, to my pillow, to the sun. Yet, the mantle hasn’t budged. Perhaps it will take leaving this city, as her husband did. But if I do that, I’ll be wearing her boots even more.

Someone wise would probably say, it just takes time. Fuck time.

Yesterday, Lindsey from A Design So Vast, highlighted an Isabel Allende quote:

“I didn’t know then that sadness is never entirely gone; it lives on forever just below the skin.”

I look forward, with hope, to the day this sadness sinks below the skin. It will feel like such a relief.