The cold, hard slap of a friend’s death stings like no other. Hearing the news of a friend’s passing, especially if you are ‘young’, instantly forces up a jungle juice mixture of crippling grief, fear, disbelief, and the horrific reality that, in the words of The Flaming Lips, ‘everyone you know someday will die’.
The idea that people view ourselves as invincible really rings true in moments like this. “Of course I’m going to die, I’m not afraid of it, everybody does it!!!” I think to myself anytime anyone brings up a cliche line about young people and invincibility. But I do think I’m going to die…later. Not today. Not now, later. And so when my friends actually do die now? I mean, the nerve. How dare they shatter my blissful illusion of semi-immortality?! Suddenly, nothing else in life matters, even though the entire rest of the world expects me to just keep going. So how can I just keep going? How can I survive when the most beloved humans around me are simply not doing so? How the fuck am I supposed to just handle knowing that everything means nothing and love always results in pain and the worst possible thing can just happen at any given moment and I have no control over anything at all?
Unfortunately, this is an area that I have gained some insight into over the past few years. People have died all throughout my life, of course. I’ve lost various family members throughout the years to various causes as everybody does. But there was one death that really changed things for me; it initiated the metaphorical ‘before’ and ‘after’.
When I was 19, my childhood best friend took his own life. I found out via facebook. Learning that someone you love is dead via social media is one of the more cruel phenomenon that has emerged from modern technology.
I hadn’t ever even suspected anything was wrong. He was the funniest person I’ve ever known. It brought on the most intense hopelessness I’ve ever felt. It was my first foray into Existing as a Grieving Person.
So, that was the first really hard one. I couldn’t believe he was gone. I couldn’t believe his time ended in such a violent way. I couldn’t believe how unfair and cruel it felt. I went through the ‘just’ phase: I had just messaged him. We had just gone to a movie. I was just thinking about him. He just tagged me in a meme! And then I had this inescapable yearning to know EXACTLY what happened, even though I knew learning the details was not in my best interest. I think I felt like if I knew all of the facts, I could somehow control what had happened or detach from it. Spoiler: I couldn’t and everything was still the worst.
And of course, overlapping every other weird emotion was the guilt. It was my job to stop him. It was my job to know that something was wrong, for fuck sake! Who else but a friend? How could I let him down like this?
It took me what felt like months to recover even the slightest. It felt wrong to find joy in anything (which wasn’t much of an issue since it became hard for me to see the joy in anything in the first place). It sent me on a spree of researching after-life theories, questioning my relationship with religion and spirituality (while somehow also becoming a real nihilist for a while), questioning my ability to be a friend. And mostly, it was just really sad. There’s normal depression and sadness, and then there’s the added spiky, heavy layer of grief. One thing I was surprised by was just how debilitating grief is: I wasn’t able to listen to music, read books, use social media, eat, or think because I was so afraid of the waves of grief that could spill over at even the slightest reminder of my friend’s existence (even though I was constantly sitting in said waves of grief already anyways). The one biggest change after someone dies (aside from, you know, them being dead) is how often you think about them. I think about my dead friends every single day. I mean, I think about my living friends, too…but it’s as if the algorithm of memories is permanently toggled when someone dies (I am not a coder SORRY). And so, I kind of just…sat. And cried. And slept for a really a long time, trying to silence that never ending loop of memories and pity and anger.
Most recently, I received a text. I was working on researching for an assignment I am being paid to complete when an iMessage popped up: “Holy fuck”. I braced in anticipation, hoping for a gripping news article or movie trailer or slice of gossip to pop up. But next came only a name: “Taylor”. And when I saw the name, that heart-dropping feeling hit. I knew it wasn’t good. My brain shot directly to the point: she’s dead.
So so, I commenced the dread scroll. I opened Taylor’s facebook profile and, sure enough, there was a lengthy ode to one of the people I treasured most in this world. And then came the ‘justs’. And then came the morbid curiosity. The rabid search for photos because somehow being able to see her face made it impossible for her to be gone. And then came the messaging to mutual friends, because knowing that other people are alive and are also in shock reassures me that I, too, am alive and in shock. I figure this process might as well be dubbed our most modern Western death ritual.
There’s something really different about this loss, even though it is just as tragic and unexpected as the others.
The truth is: it’s easier this time. And that comes with a lot of guilt. It’s not like I love Taylor any less than I love my other dead friends. It’s not as if she deserves less tears and wails and days in bed from me. If anything, I spent a lot more time and have much more vivid memories with her than anyone else. It’s not like I haven’t cried for hours since I found out. But the feelings aren’t quite as sharp this time, and I’m not really sure why.
I guess maybe grieving requires practise. Once you master the ritual, you move through it more peacefully, even though it’s just as painful and deep. You don’t dig your claws into the door frames between each phase, frantically trying to pull yourself out of the grief at every opportunity. Acceptance does appear to make a difference.
I also think part of this is specific grief puddle is made easier simply because there is so much to remember. I couldn’t forget her if I tried. That fear of not grieving ‘well enough’ for her simply isn’t there, because I know that I can’t possibly avoid it. I can’t go into any room, drive down any street, enter any store, buy any type of candy or alcohol, without immediately being bombarded by memories of us being idiots together.
And so, in order to calm my own confusion and grief, I am here to tell you what has actually worked for me. Here are a few things that, in hindsight, actually have helped me survive after losing people that I really wanted to survive with:
- Find some sort of project to do in honour of your friend. Make it something that can last indefinitely (so you can return to it years from now when the wave suddenly hits you again). I started writing journal entries to my friend detailing any new event in the world or my life that I want him to know. Sometimes, I still write him letters, but I do it less often now because I figure he’s probably busy escaping a black hole or some other shit somewhere (MAYBE HE IS THE BLACK HOLE) and he also probably doesn’t give a flying fuck about Britney Spears’ conservatorship. This time, I’ve decided to create embroidery patches inspired by Taylor because it feels like such a project is the equal amounts lame-as-shit AND potentially-rad-if-executed-properly, which she would appreciate. I can make as many as I want for however long I want. I’m gonna make Taylor one million patches. I am going to make a patch for Taylor every day until I also die. I am going to drown in a pit of subpar patches.
- Go through photos and mementos. It’s okay and probably normal if it takes a while before you’re able to do this, but you should do it eventually. It prompts you process all that you’ve lost in real time. It forces you to deal with it, and even though it’s going to be painful as hell and will likely take multiple sittings, it will feel like an accomplishment when you’re done (a grieving rite of passage if you will). It will also make your future of Existing as a Grieving Person easier, because you lessen the risk of accidentally stumbling across a photo you haven’t seen in years in a Subway parking lot, surrounded by groups of tweens who cast judging glares at you as you choke on your own snot.
- Acknowledge and value the time you had with them. Come to the realization that being friends with this person was an incredible privilege. After Taylor died, I was laying in bed staring at my ceiling when I suddenly realized that my brain is the only brain in the universe that holds specific memories of us. I’m the only person that heard some of the things she said. There are things about her that I know that nobody else knows. This realization made me really sad and immediately set off my fear of impending doom, but it also had another side effect: I value myself and my experiences more. It makes me want to love myself and take care of myself. I am going to shower today and eat and maybe even exercise because I have little pieces of the people I have lost floating around in my neurons somewhere, and those babies need to stick around.
- Honour your friend outside of their formal memorials (i.e. away from their family). For me and my friends, this usually comes in the form of sitting around and drinking or consuming very legal substances. Sitting with others who feel the same grief is comforting. Talking to others who know your friend in the same capacity as you is comforting. There’s also the added bonus of not worrying about saying something inconsiderate or inappropriate in front of their family members, or feeling like you need to minimize your own grief to make room for theirs. You can share authentic stories of the person you miss without censoring. Also, group cries are a very surreal and healing experience, despite feeling as though you’ve just experienced some sort of cult initiation.
- Obviously, seek out grief counselling or therapy if you can. Therapy is really expensive though and not everybody has the time and resources. If you don’t have access, use the ocean of information that is the internet to seek out voices that comfort you. There are podcasts about grief, tons of articles and blogs, youtube videos, you name it.
- Explore death in a way that feels comfortable to you. If you are religious, focus on finding comfort in your scripture of choice, or look to a religious leader in your community. If you’re not religious, seek out some way to explore ideas of the after-life, even if you don’t believe in it! During my first few months of Existing as a Grieving Person, I went the general spirituality route. I read a lot of Dr. Wayne Dyer (thanks, mom) and watched a lot of documentaries about people who had near-death experiences. Even though I didn’t believe in it all, it felt good to imagine my friend in the different places and forms that were described. This time around, I’ve somehow managed to wriggle my way into researching cultural rituals surrounding death. Caitlin Doughty’s writing has been a good starting place. Be warned, some of this topic is quite gruesome, so if you don’t want to learn about embalming and corpses, maybe steer clear. I am also a heavy believer in meditation, but to be honest I always have a hard time meditating when I need to most. If you can meditate through your grief, do it.
- Talk about it. Write about it. Draw about it. Watch movies about it. Feel all of the pain, it is inevitable. Scroll through the Too Hard To Keep blog and sob at every photo. Sit in your shower with the lights off and fucking wail into the dark heat. You can either feel it all and heal, or hide it and suffer. I’m not saying it’s pleasant; it’s quite literally in the Top 3 worst things in the world. You can’t escape it though, so just fucking do it. I do not work for Nike.
- Get a tattoo. Yeah I know, this one is pretty subjective. I had the vague idea of a tattoo to honour my friend, but could never think of the perfect thing that would somehow encapsulate the magic and humour that was my friend. Then, one day, I was sitting in an English class. I was not paying attention in the slightest. And then, suddenly, I zoned in on my professor, who was reading Lycidas by John Milton. I was never a huge fan of Milton, but the way that my professor explained the first stanza hit me hard. It seemed to express how I felt about my friend in a way that I couldn’t reach: He was the best of us. We would’ve done anything to keep him. But now, he’s gone before he should be. Who would not sing for Lycidas? And so, I got part of the stanza tattooed, and it feels like the perfect cheesy ode to my good ol’ friend. It feels good to know that a memorial for him will walk this Earth until I, too, turn to ash (or contract a flesh-eating disease). I also think it was important that I didn’t force the tattoo; I waited until I knew what felt right. I plan to do the same with Taylor. I know that eventually I will find something that reflects her and our friendship perfectly.
And, well. That’s it. I have nothing else for you. My hope in writing this was not only for my own healing (Taylor’s funeral isn’t until next week and good Lord I am going to crumble), but that one person out there who is desperately googling what to do or how to make it stop hurting finds this. I hope that, if that’s you, you believe me when I say that you will survive and it won’t always hurt this bad. I promise. Someday you will be able to look at the pictures and reflect on the memories without crying. I promise. All you have to do is survive this, even if your friends are dead.
