I remember living with Ben in Colorado. I was worried about him. I knew he was using, but I didn’t know how to address it. I was young and didn’t have the communication skills I have today. I didn’t know how to tell him how scared I was he would die. I didn’t know how to tell him that I was sick, too, in my own codependent way. I had made him my world, and I was convinced I needed him to stay in it.
I played him the song “Stay” by Rihanna thinking he would scoff (he listened to metal and rarely caved to my music). He didn’t say a word the whole song. At the end he took my face in his hands and said with sincerity, “I’m not going anywhere, baby”, and kissed me.
I heard this song yesterday. Instantly, his words were in my head, the ghost of his hands on my face. I saw the promise in his eyes when he said he would stay. And then, I buckled under the intense absence of him. He didn’t stay. He’s not here. The scene replayed in my mind as a tsunami sized wave of grief struck me.
I have 100’s of memories like this that have haunted me since he died on Christmas Eve last year. When they come, I usually collapse,let myself cry, and then try to move forward. But some, like this one, don’t pass quickly. And I’m not sure where to put them.
I haven’t written about him in awhile. Because no one wants to hear about grief or the radiating pains of addiction. A lot of the memories aren’t as pretty as this one. Does the world really need to know how many times I called 911 cause I thought he was dead? Three times. Do they need to know the number of times I physically chased him trying to stop him from getting in his car to get drugs? Five. Or how many times he went missing and I simply couldn’t find him/get a hold of him- I lost count.
I don’t write about him because I don’t trust people to love him the way I do. All people see is the leftover trauma. And yes, there was trauma. But I still love him. I will always love him. And I miss him dearly.
As the anniversary of his death draws near, his energetic presence has shifted. It’s as if he’s surged forth one last time, a gust of love before the memories turn into a soft whisper. Before I forget them all together. Before his image becomes a blur. And our story becomes a small distant chapter in the larger epic of my life.
It’s a sad and tragic chapter filled with a lot of growth, learning, and beauty. Maybe one day I’ll write our beautiful tragedy in its entirety. Maybe not. Either way, he is gone now and our tale is beginning to slip away. But I know- the beauty of it all, it’s significance, and everything he taught me will Stay. Forever.