Straight Lines -- Silverchair

Every week there's a 1.5 hour chunk of time that I have carved out in the middle of the day, when I talk to a therapist. It's a nice little respite from the rest of the world, even if it's a short time. It's place where I can actually be myself. And the truth is that maybe I haven't done that quite as well since Jonathan died, even though that was my intention. I somehow got super afraid of saying all the things I'd really like to say, do the things that I want to do when I'm telling a story, things that I wouldn't do around anyone else.... I try, but there's always a part of me that holds back, the voice that says, don't say that shit, don't do that, that sounds absolutely fucking crazy, that will look insane. And I usually say that bit out loud to the therapist, and because I know how it sounds, and there are like notes....meh. Whatever. 

I'm not the only one that misses Jonathan.

It seems as though everyone that I meet that knows Jonathan loves and misses him too. I struggled with that sentence for a second as I wrote and I thought should it be "loved?" but then I realized that the body is past tense, the love is still present, that's why it hurts so much. The other day I said that I had never really processed his death...

So I'll say something that I guess I have needed to say for a long time:

What the fuck, man?

Now we gotta do this shit without the pleasure of your insanely loving, always entertaining, and genuinely authentic company? That's a dick move. Like the worst. It's like getting up in the middle of a game of cards against humanity when you know you were dealt the best fuckin hand IN THE ENTIRE GODDAMN UNIVERSE. 

I don't think I had a conversation with Jonathan in which I didn't laugh, no matter the topic or the initial mood. Hanging out with my family is similar to going to a comedy club, but instead of it being stand-up, it's conversational style. Wait, I think I've just described a podcast--which we always say we're gonna do, BUT WE NEVER DO. And clearly, some of us deal with trauma and adversity by developing a particularly twisted and entertaining sense of humor over the course of our lives, Jonathan being no exception over the course of his, only he happened to just be better at it than everyone else. Effortlessly funny in all situations, that was Jonathan.

I miss you, man. It's real fucked up that you just died like that and things will never ever be the same without you.

I honestly don't know how to describe it. I guess the closest thing is that I miss one of the people I was closest to that I knew absolutely, without fail, I could say the most left-field crazy fucked up esoteric shit to and at the same time have a serious and fun conversation about it, without being judged for how fucking crazy it sounded. Like wormholes, time travel, entropy, zombies, video games, books, conundrums, music, weird words, anything and everything. And also real shit. Shit that was happening in the world and how awful is to feel things so deeply.

Salt in an open wound. As I write and think about him, the tears just flow. I don't want to feel like this, because I hate feeling sad, but I know it will be ok. I know the end of this life will come, just as everyone's does, and, until then...well, from now on, without Jonathan it's just not gonna be as fun, but I keep trying to do my best to make it entertaining anyway. Otherwise, what's the point?