Rainy day playlist

Sometimes you need a good cry, and it seems the only thing that can release the valve is listening to the exact right song at the exact right time. I believe it’s good and healthy and… primal, in a way … to close your eyes, hit play, and just let the tears flow.

You probably know by now how dark these last few months have been for me. I doubt I would have survived if it weren’t for a very particular roster of songs. Sure, I have upbeat dance tunes on my iPod to cheer me up and add a bounce to my step when I need it. But that’s not what heals.

Here’s a sample from my rainy day playlist:

Allison Krauss – Down to the River to Pray

On our third day in Costa Rica, the second-last day of my friend’s life, we spent the morning soaking in these natural hot springs. When we were done, and sufficiently relaxed, we walked down the dusty road in bikini tops and shorts waiting for someone to stop and give us a lift down the hill to our hotel. To pass the time, my curly-haired friend and I sang this song together as we ambled behind the other two girls. I’ve been kind of obsessed with water since then. How fitting that a Cree elder whom she met through work had a vision, and named her She Who Carries the Holy Water, Crossing the Running River. How fitting she died crossing a stream. Clearly, there are very specific reasons this song makes me cry. But it’s also… just crazy beautiful.

Hey Rosetta! – Becky I keep singing this song

I don’t have a heart-rending story about this one. All I know is it’s incredibly cathartic to sing “pull me out of my, pull me out of my body, and into the black” at the top of my lungs when no one can hear.

Portishead – It’s a Fire

I was really into this song back in the ’90s when I was in high school. Then I sort of forgot about it. It came on somewhere random, like a bar, recently, and it stopped me in my tracks. My lord, is the organ not stunning?

Good things

I may have mentioned in passing that I’m seeing a therapist to help me through my trauma issues. On our second visit, she had me pick from a list of statements to best describe how I feel when I think about the accident. The one that jumped out at me was “I can’t trust my judgment.”

It was my brilliant idea to go to Costa Rica. It was me who urged my friend to come along, even though she didn’t know the other two girls all that well. She told me she was scared to go on the hike the next day, that she was worried she wouldn’t be strong enough to do it. I assured her we’d take as many breaks as she needed, and that we’d make sure to bring enough snacks and water, and that I was sure it would be fun and she’d be glad she did it. She was so sleepy that morning, but I practically dragged her out of bed so that we’d catch our ride to the park on time. I saw she was tired as we ascended the sun-baked mountain, but we insisted we walk a little bit further to find some shade. I wasn’t paying attention when she tried to cross the stream. When she fell into the water, and slid down the rocks, I didn’t run and grab her arm. I didn’t tackle her with my much-larger frame to stop her from sliding. I helplessly watched her go over the edge. I ran for help, even though in my heart I knew it was a futile task designed to keep my shock-addled brain distracted. It was an act of denial.

I know what you’re going to say. None of these things are my fault. And intellectually, I know it. I invited my friend to come to Costa Rica because I wanted to spend time with her, and I thought she’d be a wonderful travel companion (and she was). She was stubborn as a mule, and would never have done anything she wasn’t game for. She was not someone prone to peer pressure at all. It was a struggle for her, but she wanted to be there. We made the right call to find shade, even though it meant exerting ourselves a little longer. There’s no way I could have stopped her from going over without going over myself. I had to run for help, just in case she survived, but was badly hurt. I couldn’t see and I didn’t know for sure. I know I made all of these decisions with the best of intentions, and with the best knowledge available. But I also know if I hadn’t made them, a mother and father would still have their daughter. Two brothers would still have their sister. Youth in need would still have a counsellor. Scores of people would still have a friend.

I don’t trust my judgment. As the therapy progresses, I’m supposed to believe that statement less and less.

On another sheet of paper my therapist had a list of positive statements. She asked me to pick one that best reflects how I want to feel at the end of it. It seems logical that I’d pick “I trust my judgment,” but instead I honed in on “I deserve good things.”

I want to eventually believe I deserve good things. It’s been nearly four months and I’m  having a difficult time believing I’ll ever be able to be fully happy, without this cloud hanging over me.

Yesterday, I rode my bike along the river by myself. The sky was brilliantly blue, the leaves overhead vibrantly green. My lungs were full of that unbelievable perfume Calgary emits during the summer… floral and fresh. It had rained during the day so the scent was more powerful than usual. I was working up a sweat. My endorphins were going. I was so, so happy by the time I got home.

And then later I lay in bed, and thought about I’d never see my dead friend again. And I cried. I felt guilty for allowing myself to be so happy.

And then there’s the man I like, who maybe likes me back. I was still feeling the afterglow of our terrific date on Sunday, and of our in-depth, highly revealing Facebook chat earlier in the day. How can I be giddy over something so frivolous when my friend is dead, and we’ll  never get her back?

Good things are going to come my way eventually. Maybe they’re coming my way now, finally.

I guess I’ve been trudging through bad for so long, that I find it hard to believe I deserve good.

Lies of omission

What I said:

I’m not feeling well. I have a runny nose, a sore throat and possibly a fever. I’m going to stay in tonight and recuperate.  Sorry to bail on you. We’ll hang out when I’m feeling better, ok?

What I didn’t say:

The stuff I said about having the flu was true. I do feel crappy. But if I were really into this you-and-me thing, I would have proposed that we go out for pho or tea or to a movie. I just wrapped up a fairly intense session with my therapist, in which I described in excruciating detail the accident that took my friend from me. Afterward, I felt tired and dazed and just wanted to sleep all day. But you can’t really cancel a third date with someone because you’re sad, can you? So I only told you the flu part.

You know about the accident, kind of. We were sitting in the park eating poutine out of brown takeout boxes. I told you about how I was going go skydiving the next day, and how I wasn’t afraid because I had done all sorts of zip lines before. You asked where I had gone on zip lines, and I said Canada Olympic Park, Peru and Costa Rica.

Shit, I thought. I said Costa Rica. Please don’t ask me about Costa Rica.

Oh! Costa Rica! How long was I there for? What did I do while I was there?

Unable to lie, I said it’s not really an appropriate second-date story.

Uh oh, you said, teasing. Did I do something embarrassing? Get drunk and dance on a table?

No. There was an accident and my friend died. It was recent. Like I said, not an appropriate second-date story.

The conversation moved on, but I didn’t. For three and a half months The Accident has been taking up more real estate in my brain than any other thing, and I found it exceedingly difficult  and exhausting to be charming for you during the rest of the date.

You texted two days later and I didn’t write back. The texts were funny, and I should have wanted to write back, but I didn’t. I should have been looking forward to seeing you on the weekend, but I wasn’t. I haven’t heard from you since I cancelled our date, and I’m relieved.

You’re so nice. You’re such a gentleman. You’ve done nothing wrong, and you deserve good things. Yes, you’re a little short for my taste. But if I was into this you-and-me thing, I’d put it aside and like you.

I feel short of breath and overwhelmed with guilt when I think of you. I feel a little nauseous. I want to be into this, but I’m not.

All the self-help books I’ve read say you should wait six months after a traumatic incident before making big life decisions. I understand why. My mind is a glass  of water that’s filled to the brim with my dead friend. If the glass is still, I’m fine. If no more water enters the glass, I’m fine. But the littlest jitter, or drop of excess emotion causes the glass to overflow.

It’s not you. It’s me. It’s me and my dead friend.

Weeeeeeeee!

The human brain — or my human brain, anyway — is an odd thing. Let’s say you’re someone overcoming a traumatic experience. Let’s say that traumatic experience involved watching someone you loved fall to her death from a great height. Would skydiving be something you’d be inclined to do three months after the tragic event? Probably not. Except if you’re me.

When my friend invited me, I emailed back within 30 seconds with the word “weeeee!” At no point in the intervening weeks did I have second thoughts. Strange, eh?

Skydiving Day ended up being the first really, truly, wholly good day I’ve had since…. well, since February 21, the day before the accident.

It was a perfect Prairie day: impossibly blue sky, lush green fields, cotton-ball clouds. It was the first sunny day after two straight weeks of driving rain. Plus, I was spending it with three of my favourite people on the planet (you know who you are).

I was the first to go. The aircraft was so tiny I literally had to spoon with the tandem instructor, Hutch. Hutch is exactly what you’d picture a guy named Hutch to be like.

There were two other solo jumpers crammed in the plane as well. Mercifully, they blocked the view out the window most of the way up, though I was able to catch occasional glimpses of farm fields stretching towards mountains. I felt really sick to my stomach, and worried what would happen if I needed to vomit.

“This one’s for you,” I mouthed to my dead friend as we hit 8,000 feet and Hutch did his final safety checks. My dead friend would have been so, so jazzed if she knew I was doing this. Maybe she did know…

The solo jumper closest to me, a middle-aged Quebecois man, gives me a fist bump and leaps out the door into the roaring sky. And then his friend goes. And then it’s my turn.

Hutch scoots to the window, and I follow, like I was trained to do. I inch my butt to the very, very edge and carefully place my feet on tiny step below, on top of the plane’s landing gear. I stand on the step, barely bigger than my feet side-by-side, and the sky is beneath me. I hold my harness and tilt my pelvis outward. I can’t tell if it’s the wind or my own rushing blood pressing on my eardrums. Hutch says “Ready.” He leans back and says “Set.”

And then… I’m in the sky.

Hutch taps me three times on my shoulder, signalling it’s time to spread my arms. I’m flying. It’s so, so noisy and I feel so, so small.

The parachute opens, and suddenly it’s silent. It’s silent, and I’m thousands of feet above Alberta. Hutch puts my hands in the loops on either side of the parachute and lets me steer. We can go fast or we can drift slowly. We’re falling and we’re in control.

I see a cluster of bodies below, and I realize they’re my three friends, looking up. I lift my legs up as we come in for a landing and my feet scrape against the grass. “I jumped out of a plane!” I say. I’m grinning so widely my face hurts.

I sit on the grass and stare at the big, blue Prairie sky as my friends do their jumps. I watch the aircraft become smaller and smaller as it makes its ascent. I watch a tiny dot grow bigger and bigger until the parachute’s silhouette becomes visible, followed shortly thereafter by my friends’ flushed, smiling faces.

Everyone was okay. Everyone was better than okay.

This blog is haunted, or I miss you something awful

The other day I wrote a very lengthy post about my dead friend. I wanted you to establish a mental image, so you know what to envision when I mention her.

So I finish my post — all 800 words of it — and I’m pretty proud of my work. And just as I’m reading it over and preparing to hit publish, poof! It disappears. No draft saved. No trace of it. No idea how it got deleted.

It was late at night and I’d had a long day. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t get the sense my friend had something to do with it. Was she embarrassed that I wrote so many nice things about her? Was she angry I’m still dwelling so much on her, making a spectacle of her demise? Does she want to be left alone? Was she merely being playful, sticking a ghostly hand through my keyboard and accidentally shorting a circuit? I can totally picture her doing that.

More likely I was just missing her horribly and looking for signs of her, when I know she doesn’t exist anymore. Not in any realm I can access, anyway.

I’m going to try to resurrect that post, because I really feel you should get to know her. I’ll hit save frequently. If it disappears again, I’ll know whom to blame.

So. My friend.

I suppose the first thing you’d notice about her were her wild, unruly black curls. On the second-last day of her life, she told me her secret to keeping them smooth and glossy was olive oil.

The second thing you’d notice was her smile. Her big, goofy smile. In photos it never looked forced. It looked like it was just her natural state of being.

She was rail-thin. Neither short nor tall.

She had a long face, a square jaw, defined cheekbones. Her eyes were warm and brown.

I don’t think I ever saw her wear make up. She had maybe two or three pairs of shoes, none with heels. She didn’t need to put any work into looking pretty.

That said, she did have a quirky sense of style. On the third-last day of her life, she wore a really, really short black chiffon tutu and and a yellow t-shirt with a boy holding balloons on it. She bought that shirt when she came to visit me in Calgary a few years back. On her feet were Croc knock-offs she bought in Chinatown for $5.

She walked a little funny, favouring her left side over her right. She had a mild form of cerebral palsy. I actually didn’t realize that until two or three years into our friendship. We were at a party at Cherry Beach in Toronto, and I noticed her limping a bit. I asked if she hurt herself, and she matter-of-factly told me about her condition. She wouldn’t advertise it, but would be happy to answer questions if you asked. She never, ever wanted to be treated differently for it. (So when we went hiking that day, we didn’t treat her differently. I wonder constantly if we should have).

She had the Best! Laugh! Ever! Like staccato hiccups, one friend aptly said in her eulogy.

When she hugged you, she really hugged you. She squeezed as hard as her scrawny little arms could manage. I’m not a touchy feely person at all, but I totally dug this girl’s hugs.

She was known to gesticulate wildly. And she had an odd habit saying “aaahh!” in instances most Canadians would say “eh?” “This tabouleh is really good, aaahh?” It had a vaguely European flavour to it… It’s hard to describe. Guess you  had to hear it yourself.

She really liked Wes Anderson movies. I got her hooked on This American Life, after which point she developed an audio crush on regular contributor Jonathan Goldstein. She played a bell in a samba band. I believe she had, or was working on, her purple belt in karate. She liked to go camping. She bought raw milk from a quasi-sketchy dealer, because — according to her — it tastes so much better than the pasteurized stuff.

She could be a little spacey sometimes. It was the second-last day of her life. We had just done the canopy tour, and this Dutch couple we met along the way were driving us back to our hotel. The other girls and I described the exhilarating experience in detail, and then moved on to another topic. Several minutes later she burst in with the proclamation: “We did the zipline!” The rest of us burst out laughing.

She was wise, though. And tough when necessary. The canopy tour company took photos and videos of us while we sailed through the trees. They had a “preview” of sorts playing on a computer screen when the adventure was over, presumably to entice us to buy the DVD for $25.  I made a crack about how big my thighs looked in the photos, and she read me the riot act. She said our bodies know when we say cruel things about them, and we must speak of them with kindness and love.

We agreed to go halvsies on the DVD. I still owe her $12.50. We gave the DVD to her parents. I’m not sure if they’ve watched it.

There was a fragility, a tenderness about her.

On the third-last day of her life, we saw a rainbow. Like, a big honking rainbow. Each band of colour was distinct and each hue was saturated. The rest of us were making cracks about the double rainbow guy. But she said shehecheyanu. It’s a prayer Jews say on special holidays, or when something new and beautiful happens. She thanked God for bringing her to that moment.

In the last hours of her life, we were hiking through the forest talking about — what else? — boys, and all the troubles they bring us. She asked us to please stop for a few minutes and be quiet. She wanted to listen to the birds.

I’m glad that was one of the last things she’d ever hear. And I think she is, too. Wherever she is.

To the man who loves me next

To the man who loves me next:

Maybe we locked eyes on the train. Maybe you saw me dancing up by the stage at an indie-rock show.  More likely than not, we met on an online dating site.

In any event, you don’t know a whole lot about me yet. So allow me to bring you up to speed before either of us get hurt.

I’m damaged goods. Like, really damaged. You see, I witnessed a dear friend of mine fall to her death less than three months ago. Most of the time — like now — I feel normal. But sometimes I get hit with what I’m come to refer to as a grief bomb. Out of nowhere, I’ll just lose my shit and cry and cry and cry until my face literally hurts and I can’t fully open my eyes. The grief bombs are fewer and far between these days, but they do still sometimes go off. I advise you to get out now, lest you get hit with grief bomb shrapnel.

If you do decide to stay, here are some tips:

– I do not need “space” in the aftermath of a grief bomb.  I need you as close as possible.

– You can’t fix it. Nothing you can say or do — save from raising the dead or mastering time travel —  will defuse the grief bomb.

– Listen. Like, actually listen. Let Me Talk. Sometimes all I need to do to feel better is hit the release valve. It wasn’t until what happened happened that I realized how rare it is that people actually listen instead of formulating what they’ll say next. I’m working on getting better at listening myself.

– Grief bombs do not explode at convenient times.

– I’m sure you have your own damage, though let’s hope it’s not as awful as mine. Let’s not enter into a game of pain one-upsmanship.

– I will assume you’re dead if you don’t call when you say you’re going to. I know from experience how suddenly someone you love can be wrenched from you. It’s not a joke.

– I’m not usually this thin. My appetite’s been off. In time, I’ll fatten up. I don’t want you to feel like I bait-and-switched you when I go back to my normal voluptuous self.

– I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

Heavy enough for you? Good, cause there’s more damage where that came from. I have a major chip on my shoulder when it comes to rejection. I’ve been rejected so many times that I can predict exactly what you’re going to say to me when you get tired of our relationship (and, mark my words, you will). You’ll say that I’m a smart, accomplished woman and that you admire me greatly. However, you feel like our chemistry is off and that we’re not very compatible. I’ll press you for a more specific explanation, and you’ll strain to assure me I’m a good person who’ll find someone… but it’s just not you. Did I guess right, or what?

To save you the trouble of coming by my house to deliver the above speech to me, I’ll make it real easy. The second I catch a whiff of He’s Just Not That Into You vibes, I’ll cut you loose. I won’t ask what’s up with the silent treatment or try to talk it out. I won’t give you the benefit of the doubt. If that seems overly harsh, tough. I’m done with being on the receiving end, and I don’t have time to keep being the person who fixes everything. If you don’t call or you cancel plans for no good reason or you tune out when I’m talking to you, to me it means you’re not interested. That’s what it’s always meant with your predecessors, so why should you be different? If you think I’m being unfair and that I’ve misinterpreted your signals, fight for me. Fight hard.

I’ve given you plenty of reasons to run away. But if you’re brave and patient and kind enough, there are plenty of reasons to stay. I’ve got a rich inner world that I share with few people. It’s fun and magical in there, and I suspect you’d want to experience it. I’m pretty good at helping people with their problems in a practical, objective way. It takes me 10 minutes for me to get ready. I’m a  reasonably good cook. I’m really self-sufficient, and won’t take more from you than you can give. I’m really, really loyal (more loyal than is good for me) and I’ll never ever stray. Family history seems to indicate I’ll age gracefully. I’m not a prude; even if I legitimately do have a headache, I’ll still want to have sex with you. Your parents will approve of me.

So… are you in or out?

Helping helps

Disclaimer: This post may be a tad sappy and emotionally wrought, so ready your gag reflexes.

Today I had my first shift volunteering for this pretty awesome organization, and it made me happier than I’d been in a long time.

A few weeks after my friend died, I started seriously looking into volunteering. I’d always meant to do something to give back, but never made it a priority (aside from the odd no-effort charity cheque). I had a couple of motivations to finally delve into it, not all of them fully altruistic.

My friend — the one who died in February– was one of the kindest, most generous, most empathetic women I knew. And I’m not just saying that because one always says nice things about the dead. No — she truly was a terrific human being, with an openness and warmth that just drew you in. She worked as a counsellor with aboriginal women and children in downtown Toronto. I’d never met someone who loved her job so much. Even though the work must have been heartbreaking and thankless at times, it filled her with so much excitement and joy. So I guess in a way, volunteering is a small way to honour her memory.

I’ve also been feeling a lot of guilt since the accident. Why did it have to be someone so extraordinary, who gave so much to the world? Why not me, the selfish, whiny, lazy princess who’s contributed nothing? How could I  have let the accident happen? Surely I could have done something to stop it.  How could I have let her down so badly? Intellectually I know it was a freak accident and it wasn’t my fault. But my heart hasn’t yet come to that conclusion. Maybe I’m looking to absolve myself by trying to be a more giving, selfless person.  By trying to be more like her.

I’ve been hurting, and I’ve been looking for constructive ways to take the edge off the sadness.  There’s something to be said for the notion that giving back soothes the soul. It reminds you that you’re not the only  person in the world to have his or her heart broken. It also reminds you that the world isn’t completely spinning out of control. It reminds you that you have the power to put a small piece of this broken world back together.

When I was scoping out volunteering positions, I was looking for something that would be fun and would play to my strengths. The organization I ended up picking helps women “in transition” prepare for the workforce. They may be new to Canada. They may have just left abusive relationships. They may not have very much money. All sorts of situations.

The job title is — get this — “image consultant.”  I kid you not. You basically spend and hour and  a half with a client, helping pick out work-appropriate attire. It’s all the fun of shopping, without the associated financial repercussions. When you’re not with a client, you’re in the back sorting donations. We only pick nice, clean, undamaged items. It’s the kind of clothing you’d find in a nicer consignment store, not Goodwill-calibre stuff.

As it was my first shift, I shadowed a more experienced volunteer. The two of us helped this one lady named Dana. She’s maybe in her 20s or 30s, with long, beautiful hair all the way down her back. She brought her two adorable little daughters, 7 and 10, with her to the appointment. She’s in school now, but looking for an administration-type job. I think she mentioned she found out about us through some kind of aboriginal resource centre. When we asked what she liked, she pointed to the bright red pencil skirt I was wearing. My kind of girl! Not afraid of colour! I loaded as many fuchsia, turquoise and other jewel-toned clothes into her change room as I could.

The little girls were with her in the change room. Every couple of minutes, the younger one would emerge from the behind the curtain with an armload of items, saying “mom says yes” or “mom says no.”

Dana was having a little trouble with skirts, so I started pulling some dresses off the racks. Dresses can be good for hiding bits you’re self-conscious about. This one floral sun dress was a huge hit, and I was proud of myself for suggesting it. We found her a black blazer that she could wear over the dress in an office environment. She tried it on with black pumps, and you could tell she felt really great in it.  She just carried herself differently than she did when she came in.

In the end Dana got two blazers, two dresses, a print skirt, an emerald-green cardigan, some camisoles, a blouse, a purse big enough to hold her school books, two pairs of fierce shoes and some earrings. She was so happy when she left, and she thanked us sincerely. She was all smiles. The whole thing just put me in a fabulous mood.

See what I meant about the sappiness? Are you gagging yet? I warned you.

Anyway, after three hours on my feet, running around the store, I was pooped. Utterly knackered. I didn’t realize how exhausting it was. So I’m rewarding myself with a cozy night in, sore, tired feet up on the sofa.

You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed

I haven’t written so long that you’ve probably been wondering whether something tragic has happened to me.

Well, it has.

I don’t want to go into the grisly details, but here’s the upshot: a dear friend of mine died in an accident nearly two months ago. And I was there when it happened.

Yeah… I know you don’t know what to say to me. I wouldn’t know what to say to me either. It’s exactly as fucking awful as you’d expect. I hurt exactly as much as you imagine I do, and I’m not sure when or if the hurt will ever go away.

There was pre-accident me. And now there’s post-accident me. I’m still trying to figure out who post-accident me is, and how I’m supposed to be both her and a functioning member of society at the same time.

This blog is about loving life,  with or without a love life. You can see why I’ve been avoiding writing in it for so long.

Loving life? After going through this?

One part of me believes life is cruel and merciless and, frankly, kind of an asshole. Some people get to live long, boring lives. Others live extraordinarily rich, exciting lives and are rewarded with falling off a cliff at Age 30. Life is unfair and arbitrary and not worthy of my love.

Another part of me believes life is short and precious and must be savored. I feel this urgent need to love fiercely and fully, to leave nothing unsaid, to make every millisecond special. Life is beautiful and a blessing and worthy of every last drop of my love.

As you can see, I’m conflicted.

And my love life? Every problem I’ve ever complained about on this blog seems utterly ridiculous now. I thought I knew the meaning of heartbreak but I didn’t.

The one guy I was supposed to go on a date with — the one with two kids, whom I wasn’t so sure about to begin with — sent me a perfectly innocent email around the time of my friend’s funeral. I replied truthfully, explaining what happened and that he’d best leave me alone for a while. He’s respected my wishes.

I left another guy hanging, not replying to his repeated poetry-laden missives (six in one night!) To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have replied anyway. It was a bit much. He ended up Googling me to find out whether something tragic had happened to me and … surprise! He came across an obituary in which I am quoted. He sent an email titled “I’m so sorry” along with — you guessed it — more poetry. I told him to leave me alone please. Since then, he’s respected my wishes.

So, in one respect, my heart is closed. It’s under repair.

But a woman I met recently — who lost her brother in a horrific accident a year ago — had a different take. She said tragedies like the ones she and I went through break your heart, but they break your heart open.

They create space for new ideas and relationships to take root.

My heart has been broken open.

Someone read part of a Leonard Cohen song at my friend’s funeral, which I think echoes the same idea.

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.

I’ve been reading The Little Prince over and over again lately. I picked up a copy because I needed something to read, and wanted something easy, without any crushing reality or violence. The words found their way through the cracks of my broken heart, and were perfect.

It was the part with the fox that really got to me.

You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed.