October

This is my least-favorite month.

I hate that it is; it used to be one of my favorites, second only to May, but after thirteen years I haven't been able to shake my resentment of this month. It's beautiful, it's beautiful, it's beautiful and then it bites me in the ass, every single year. I wake up in the morning and the sun is shining and the air is crisp and the birds are singing and the leaves are glowing with their gorgeous colors in the morning light, and by nightfall I'm lost in a dream of a long-gone time, with songs in my head that only matter to me, and so I go home and drink more than I ought to, and try to forget...which never, never happens.

I miss the past so much.

It's worse, this year, than usual. Not as bad as three years ago, mind, but bad. Bad like recurring-dreams, sleep-the-day-away, no-really-I'm-fine bad; bad as in, I can remember the lyrics and the melody of every single song that was on the radio back then, but when you ask me something simple like my work extension, I have to peek. Bad as in, sitting in a fifth-floor office this afternoon and looking out the northward-facing window, I had to stop and shake myself because after all this time, still, STILL, there are moments when I question how any of this could possibly be real. How did this happen? I ask myself. There has to be some kind of mistake. He can't be dead, he just can't. There was so much left to do. You'd think that after thirteen years, at least THAT thought wouldn't sneak around behind you and yell BOO! You'd think that after thirteen years there'd be at least a modicum of peacefulness attached to all those memories; but there isn't. All there is is anger and sadness and longing, disbelief and hurt and a great big empty hole that nothing and nobody can fill.

I was watching some kids' show last weekend, and somewhere along the way I thought about growing up; about all the "lasts". I try to remember the ends of things: the last sleepover, the last time my friends and I rode our bikes to Venture together to look at makeup; the last time I spoke to Karen or Connie or any of the other people I lost touch with later on. I try to remember the last time I played--not the adult version, but with the abandon and unselfconsciousness of a child. The last time I made mud pies, or played chase at Debbi's house; the last time I roller-skated in my mother's basement, or made a silly tape-recording with a friend, or played with dolls. I don't remember ANY of these "last" times; I was a kid and then somehow, I wasn't one. I was a teenager and then suddenly I was an adult, and even then there were stages happening which I wasn't really aware of, because I remember being happy and being playful and being silly even later.

I miss those days. Mostly I miss JP. I don't know what to do about that anymore. My doc thinks maybe it's time to try some different meds; at this point, I'm certainly not against it. Sometimes, though, I think the only thing that would put me back together, make me even care again, hasn't been invented yet.

I want so badly to believe in heaven, you know? I want so badly to believe that someday, when I die, I will see him again and I will be able to tell him how horrible it was without him; about all the things he missed and all the things I wanted to share with him, all the things I wanted him to know about, for all the days of my life. But I can't bring myself to believe. I can't risk believing in something that logic tells me doesn't exist; and I can't make that leap of faith anymore, because the so-called "faithful" in my life so far have been so full of ulterior motives. None of the beliefs I can accept in any way lead to some eternal happiness; the ones that DO lead to eternal happiness are the ones I find most objectionable. Sometimes I wish I could just accept things, the way I see so many people do; just lean back into a set of beliefs and rules, like an old comfy chair, and follow along and question only little things. Instead I have to be this person, the one who reinvents every wheel and questions every dogma, and I know those are supposed to be GOOD qualities, but I'll tell you this: it gets very, very tiring. There are days I just want to believe that everything really WILL be okay in the end, despite all evidence to the contrary...but until I have some proof that there will be eternal compensation for these years of sadness, some afterlife that will make it all worthwhile, belief is not something I'm prepared to risk. It's like the celestial equivalent of being a Cubs fan; we say "wait til next year", and we WANT to believe it, but even when we put up a 97-64 season, we have this little doubt in our hearts because most of us KNOW what generally happens next. Some year it won't, and maybe some year I'll be able to believe too...but right now, my view of the afterlife is that it's an eternal Cubs post-seasom--great hopes, disappointing reality.

I miss him. I miss ME. I miss hope, maybe most of all; I miss hope.