Got into a car, crashed along the way….

I should write. But I don’t feel like it, at all. Therapy today has left me drained. Really, really, really drained.

Semi-talked about Nevin, Mikey. stuff. yeah.

j talked of a friend who died when they were in high school. And. She’s spoken of her before, tho never at great length. And she was saying how the event sort of…made death more real to her. And that it…I dunno. That it is in part responsible for where and who she is today.

And. Sitting on the couch listening to her talk of this…makes my heart hurtmore And part of me just wants to hug her and tell her how sorry I am that such a thing happened (sidenote: “i’m sorry” just doesn’t seem appropriate to me in such circumstances? but what else do you say? “gee, that sucks…” heh. *sigh*) But. I know that that wasn’t her ‘point’ in sharing the story with me. That me turning the session around to focus on her, and that, wasn’t appropriate (not that she woulda let me get away with it anyways…)

(anoter sidenote: “My Immortal” is on right now. helphelphelphelp…)

Anyways. So part of me just wanted to comfort *her* except…and the part that I can’t comprehend really…she seemed was ok sitting there talking about it. Said that she uses it in one of her classes, as a listening exercise and such. And. And so I find myself sitting on her mini-couch looking at the fish picture (yesh, offices moved, but the fish picture is still across from the mini-couch. which I’m glad for.) feeling…well, Feeling. heh. But shoving it down as fast as it came up. Anyways. But just thinking that I felt…mmm…honoured? grateful? touched. I felt touched that she was willing, ya know, to share such a personal part of her life. And I was also just…I thought “Yeah….but her friend’s death…I can *see* what came from it. I can see that…that she used it to change, to learn, to grow…but me? I can’t see anything -good- coming out of nevin and mike’s deaths….” But. Then I thought, well, maybe not for *me* but prolly for other people, people that were closer to them. But for me? You’d think it would push me away from suicidal thoughts, that the thought of killing myself and other people having to suffer the ripples would drive those thoughts away from me. But. It doesn’t.

And I wonder what Nevin was thinking, when he stepped (or “accidentally fell…”) off the chair and cooler and crate that he had stacked under that noose fastened around his neck. I wonder if all he thought was “ouch.” or “shit, maybe I should rethink this..” or if he was just thinking how nice it would be to rest. To get away. Or if he was thinking of his ex-girlfriend that he had broken up with earlier that week or of his parents who he had had a fight with earlier that day…I wonder if he was thinking of them. And if he was, if he was thinking things like “I’ll miss them…” or “I’m sorry…” or “that’ll teach ’em…”

And I sat there wondering why when I thought of that summer, that year, that I thought about it in such a cold-hearted manner. In such an…emotionless…state of mind, I guess. Yet, I Felt instantly when J mentioned her friend. Why can I feel for others, but not me?

And my head got all jumbled, trying to make me feel angry and sad about nevin and mikey, trying to take the hurt I was feeling for j and tack it to them and…just…getting lost. and then j was saying it’s ok to feel…. but. no. I shook my head cuz, no…

Before all of that (why do I always start in the middle and work backwards…) she was asking what I wanted…and i mumbled “a time machine…” to go back to when, she asked. 1996, I said. And we talked (or perhaps we just sat there in silence and my brain chattered…I can’t recall..) and then she asked, if I could, would I rather them be alive and me not have met AJ. And I didn’t have to think about that one. AJ is already such a part of me, weaved into my heart as completely as the veins and arteries…So. No. I’d rather know AJ.

And. I know that way leads on to way. But. I can’t connect…I can’t make any connection. I can’t see any path but pain leading from their deaths. And ya know. yeah, I could prolly sit in front of a class and talk about them til I was blue in the face….but. It wouldn’t be me talking about them. It would be me talking about someone else’s life. Or I would be someone else talking about my life.

(side note: now Vincent (Starry starry Night) is playing. Geesus. The damn thing is on Random so why do all of these songs keep coming on…)

I know bringing them back, or changing the way things happened, wouldn’t end the way I would want it too. I watch enough Sci-Fi to know that changing the past doesn’t fix the future. But. I wish I could just…let them go? I don’t want to be so…affectedly un-affected (?) by them, by That year, any more. I want to be able to sit 30 years from now and speak of them in a positive way, be able to say how my life changed, for the better, because of that year. And I’m afraid that that just won’t happen.

I think i’m so afraid of the coming year because…because when I’m with AJ…even when I don’t feel good or when my head is in turmoil…I can still feel an undercurrent of…of Happy? Of Ok-ness. Of It’s-gonna-be-ok-i-think-ness. I feel with her the way I feel when I’m sitting in the middle of the floor with babies crawling all around and all over me. And I’ve never felt that way with anyone (except…well, with babies, of course…), not even J or M or Homie or G or D or anyone, that I can think of.

And it’s not that I ignore all the shit that’s going on outside of us (well, I do, a bit…) or that I shove it under everything…it’s…I put it on the backburner. Which is different than shoving it under the couch. It’s just…like when I’m babysitting RB and DB…life can be falling down around my feet and actively suicidal but…but when I get there, when I’m with them…I wouldn’t *dream* of hurting myself. I mean. Once or twice the thought has flit across my mind, but it’s more of a “i wish m would come home so i can go home and cut…” rather than “i wish i could cut right now…” if that makes sense. I’m not allowed to jeapordize them.

And I’m not saying that being with AJ is like being with a child. Just. It’s that same kind of safety. That same kind of…focus? Even if it doesn’t always seem that way. I dunno. I really don’t.

And as I sat there on the mini-couch with j, I thought of the strength it must take to survive…that. and i think that i wouldn’t’ve survived. well. maybe. maybe i would’ve. but i would’ve probably spent the rest of my days going from psych hospital to psych hospital until finally just giving up and turning into one of those cold, soul-less, heartless patients. The kind that give me shivers when I look them in the eyes, cuz i can see nothing but…hate? Disregard? Complete and total…apathy? I’m not saying j’s some sort of superwoman (heh. tho, sometimes it seems like she is :o> ) Just, she’s made different, of course. We tease about how stubborn she is, but i suspect that part of that stubbornness is what helps her move past things such as this. I don’t have that…persistance. I’m not made for endurance, I think. I envy/admire that aspect of her personality, even tho it really drives me insane and frustratesme at times.

And I sat there on the mini-couch, looking at the fish in the cool-green sea, trying to make sense of things (of anything-s) in my mind. Thinking of things like The Butterfly Effect, thinking of ripples, how every action has an equal and opposite reaction, of how so many specific things had to happen in such a specific order at such specific times to make things as they are right at that instant.

And I told her, before I gave myself time to muse over it, how every day this week has been a struggle- how I’ve fought with myself every day to not go buy razors.

And then I was sorry for saying it, of course, cuz it’s not a thought that should be said or admitted to or spoken out loud. And I just wanted to throw the pillow I was holding across the room, but I couldn’t see what good would come of it. It would just be futile and I would feel stupid afterwards. So I didn’t.

And she asked me if I had written poems for them. And I have. Wonderfully cheesy teen-angst ridden poems that if I recall correctly, all have lines with endrhymes. oi.

She gave me an assignment, to write something(s) for/about them to bring next week…from 26yr old me, rather than 17/18 yr old me. And to try to write from different..perspectives? and that maybe we could find somewhere to do our own little memorial to them, i think she said. which sounds kind of silly. but. not. i never went to their funerals, to their wakes, to their graves. They still live exist in limbo inside of me….I know that they’re dead. I have their obituaries in my senior yearbook, tucked between the 2 pages that were dedicated to them. (heh. They made us FIGHT to get Nevin’s senior picture put in the book with the rest of ours. They didn’t want to do it, saying he wasn’t a senior. But damnit, he had already had his senior pics taken, and he had passed 11th grade. He WAS a senior. He was part of OUR class. We won, in the end.) Other random yearbook facts: there’s a picture of Mikey’s older brother, who was often at my house when I was growing up- AJ, actually his name was. Because he was homecoming king in 96. There are several pics of his younger sister, Angie. She was a sophomore, I believe. She was back on the colourguard practice field with a few days. Mikey’s picture isn’t with the rest of his class. The only pic of him is the memorial page.

But. I see those pics, hold those obituaries in my hand and….and I can’t see anything except the time Nevin pushed me into the pool at skewl. The way Mikey smiled- he was a gorgeous boy. They’re not dead to me. But they’re not alive, either.

I was at The Diner both times, or on my way, when I found out about their deaths. Mikey, there was an article in the paper and the cashier asked me if I knew him. The name was familiar, but I couldn’t place the face. Until a little bit later when I realized…Michael…was Mikey. And I sat in a booth and cried while I married the ketchups. The next week, Jeff picking me up for work- gawd it was early and I had such a struggle getting out of bed. And his little truck, having to sit on his sisters lap. Stopping at the gas station to pick up cigs and him telling me, when Cin got out, about Nevin. I thought he was joking. There were tears in his eyes. Cin’s legs, sweaty against mine on our way to work….not sure if it was her feather-weight body crushing me, or the shock of the news I had just heard, trying to incorporate it with the news of Mikey the last week.

The year….the year didn’t get better. Marietta ate a lot of pills and went out to sleep in the freezing snow. Lori splattered her brains all over her father’s study.

And. And I wonder why I’m so affected, when so many of my friends don’t seem to be so. And I realized, just now for the first time, that…I was alone that year. At home, I mean. H was..hmm…was she in college or were she and Shawn living in the basement at that time? But. She wasn’t there often, as she worked quite a distance away, and spent a lot of time out with shawn. And mum….mum was commuting/living an hour up the road, where her new job was. Only came home on weekends, if that. Brother Shawn was long since married and had a gaggle of kids, 6 hours away. Patrick, engaged/married- 4 hours away. Elmer….Elmer was there. Elmer was my chauffer, when he was home and not at the bar. My always not-sober chauffer. Many times I’d just walk the 45+ minutes to skewl instead of sitting in his car wondering just how drunk he was, holding my breath trying not to breathe in the cigarette-stale air, trying to avoid ashes getting on my always-black wardrobe (I was a theatre kid, I had an excuse…) Lou…she was busy with band, they were always travelling cuz they were a competition band (pretty damn good one, too). Who else was there? Dee. But she was somewhat of a…uhm…well, not in my words but in others- she was a slut. So, she was always out with different guys.

They had “support group” sort of meetings for the kids who were close to Mikey and Nevin…but they were sort of by “invite” or whatever. I mean, teachers would send a recommendation to the guidance counselors for the kids who seemed to be taking it hard. I worked in the library and I remember shelving books, looking into the glass to the room where they all were, some crying, the guidance counselors trying to not be dickheads for a change, trying to be Supportive. And I wanted to be in there. But. I didn’t feel it was my place. Those kids were…they were members of various teams and clubs that the boys had belonged to…childhood friends….Friends, not acquaintances, like I was.

i don’t want to write about this anymore.

***********EDIT**********
heh. I looked back thru my diary, and found the following entries about this. heh. Notice a theme…*sigh*

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