27 Club

Today they released Kurt Cobain's autopsy results. He died on your birthday 3 years before you were born. I think that shakes you up inside. Leads you to believe you are connected to him somehow. In the same way millions of others connect to his music all around the world.

But for you it goes deeper doesn't it?

I held back tears clicking through the reel of photos on TMZ, same ones you'll find on any website, same ones that have been released for nearly 30 years. Largely, the pictures just show the same pile of things from different angles. Nothing unusual. But for me every angle, every picture, revealed more and more similarities between the two of you. With every click "next" my heart jumped. You smoked the same cigarettes, American Spirit Blacks, you had the same shades, the same wallet... I had always knew you loved Nirvana, the angst and anger dredged up from so much inner sadness. But I didn't realize to what extent you replicated yourself in their Lead Singer.

I began finding myself feeling anxious whenever I'd come home from work and Kurt's voice would be the first thing I heard playing through our front door. Myself, trained like one of Pavlov's dogs, unintentionally you created pathways in my mind to associate Nirvana with immediate stomach churning panic. ANXIETY. My imagination flooding with images of what I might find through the door.

Most days you were physically fine.

&

Most days you were not mentally fine.

Nowhere near okay. I'd begin the steps, act as though everything is normal. Adjust based of your response, coddle if needed, give space if the 'normal' didn't go well. I'd find ways to trick you into food, even if that meant leaving snacks around like you might a toddler; in reachable distance to wherever it was you deemed the nest for the night. Offering water but only twice as not to agitate you, or perhaps bring out the monster in you that insisted I was dumping your booze down the drain.

I'd learn to forget... or perhaps misplace, my own upset during a fight, the moment I heard you slink away and begin strumming sloppily to the cords of Lithium, singing from somewhere deep and acidic sounding.

"I'm so lonely, that's okay"

Deep breath in and out, forget or maybe it was freeze? Put away the feelings of anger, of betrayal, of sadness, whatever it was that I felt before, during and reeling from after an arguement. In this moment, backed by drunken gurgles I was focused on one thing, one person. Never myself.

"I like it. I'm not gonna crack." I'd stiffle back tears, after sneaking up to the space you occupied in the home, never close enough (so I thought) to be seen but enough to verify in my mind that you were physically okay. Knowing the mental battle was something I could handle, something I have handled many times before.

"I miss you. I'm not gonna crack." I crawl back and find a place, be it the floor, the couch, reading a book, playing a game, anything to appear busy to you. Rest assured your business hadn't been disturbed or noticed, or worse yet understood. I'd play pretend, counting in my head the breaths between lyrics, coming up with a game plan on how to be there for you. I'd sink deeper and deeper into myself the adrenaline rush serving to help game plan on my moves to help you, without appearing like I'm helping, you hated to be baby'd, unless you asked to be.

"I love you. I'm not gonna crack" You don't understand when it comes to me I guess... The same way you do with your found family. You told me many times how you only ever went on medication, anti-depressants because you felt guilty, like you owed them to try and get better. You hated every moment you were on them. You postponed our relationship when you cut them cold turkey. You wanted to find yourself, be stable on your own without aid before trying us out. (I respected this.) You don't understand now, in the aftermath, that I, just like the found family, ache (argueably more) when you are in distress. You treat every pain like it's soley yours. You are indifferent to the pain that I put aside in myself to address yours. (This line, "I love you. I'm not gonna crack." Belongs to me in this piece not you.)

"I Killed You. I'm not gonna crack." At the end of us, the biggest distain you had for me was that I wasn't myself. I lost me, somewhere along the way, you consitantly told me. Every fight sobered out eventually, but always would result in the same outcome. You believed I no longer loved you- ABSURD noting how much I did to accomidate you and your cycles- and that I was no longer the girl you loved. Correction, thee girl you fell in love with. Goodness me, I am so sorry, that I lost myself while taking such diligent care of you. I'm sorry I pushed every last engine I had into gassing you up, supporting you, fearing for you, searching endlessly for what it would take to grow you, heal you, love you.

"I'm so ugly, that's okay, 'cause so are you..." and so I became. 26 and never so afriad. People panic over inching closer to 30 at my age. I panic knowing you are inching closer to 27. We aren't a We or an Us, haven't been for nearly a year, but it's (I was gonna say funny, but my therapist is encouring I don't self soothe with humor anymore.) it's- scary. Terrifying, noting 27 is roughly 2 months around the corner, and I can't be there sneaking close but just out of veiw to make sure you are phsyically okay, waiting to tend to you mentally. Gentally, pausing my own world to mend you within yours.