grief soup

It's okay if you don't know what to say to me. I wouldn't know either. The "comforting" gene isn't present in the Finnish nor German side of my family. Couple this with a total lack of maternal instinct, and you should be glad you're on the other end of this whole comforting business.

So, yeah. I had two best friends. Erik & Nadia. Some people probably think you can only have one best friend, but I had two. There are many things that bother me about Erik's untimely demise - but one of the bigger things is that I can't seem to find the words to explain how cool he was. It's not that I'm biased either - empirically speaking - he was a fucking cool motherfucker.

We met at age 15. He drove up from Lansing to hook-up with my then "bisexual" friend Mark. When the van first pulled into the driveway, I walked outside wearing a wife-beater (no bra) with camouflage army pants. Erik said he loved me instantly and thought I was the biggest dyke he'd ever seen.

Later that night he, Mark, and I got drunk on Strawberry Hill Boone's Farm and had a threesome beneath the purple glow of Christmas lights strewn about my room. And by threesome, I mean - they kissed me a few times, then got it on like animals. It was impossibly beautiful; I could never explain how much so.

My mom walked in around 7:30 am and we were still going at it. She sighed and said, "Oh, you kids. Would you like some pancakes?" We ate breakfast, then fell asleep until 2:30 pm. Erik came back over later that night and we had a party at my house. When he walked into my room, I was playing The Pixies; we both credit this as the reason we became best friends.

Erik was incredibly self-aware from a very young age. There was never a transitory "bi" phase - he was always into men, but his sexuality was never his defining characteristic. Many people, including myself, would tell him he was the straightest gay man ever. He was who he was, and didn't need to listen to Cher to prove it. He loved beer. He wore flannel. It took most people awhile to even realize he was gay, as he would likely pick his nose in front of you and belch loudly long before an effeminate action might betray his preference.

He came "out" to his parents while we were still in High School, but enjoyed messing with them for awhile first. I will never forget the Halloween he dressed as a sailor and smeared toothpaste on his face to mimic semen. He greeted me at the door of his parent's house and when my face went slack-jawed he said, "What? I'm a sailor." SOME HOW his parents didn't catch on.

His parents were incredibly supportive, although long after he came out, his mother looked to me to turn him straight. She would stare a little too long at my hips - assessing my childrearing capabilities. I maintained that when Erik found the right man to settle down with, I would have a child for them. And I meant it, although secretly I doubted he would ever settle down.

I could tell you that he listened to riot grrrl music and we had pillow fights. That he was obsessed with cobalt blue and orange - EVERYTHING in his apartment was one or the other, and, as crazy as that sounds, it looked completely amazing. I can tell you that he worked at the Senate and knew all the secretly gay senators in the Union. He even had sex with at least one.

I can tell you all these cool things about him, but I could never get to the true essence of what made him so fucking special. There has never been another human like him, and there never will be. Now that he is gone, I feel like the color of the world has been turned way down. I feel like a hollow shell of a person, standing in a world that is decidedly less awesome.

Also, I'm afraid. I'm afraid the grief I feel will be on me forever, like a shroud I cannot remove. I have seen this loss in the eyes of others and felt helpless to relieve their suffering. I don't want anyone to look at me and feel this helplessness, although I cannot imagine releasing my pain.

I want my best friend back and I want to continue my life as recklessly as before. The only peace I have felt since I found out he died has been while I sleep. Still, the moment I wake up, my first thought is "Erik's not alive anymore" and the hurt is magnified, as though I am feeling it for the first time.

So I try to sleep as much as possible. I have a friend here to take care of me, to make me "grief soup" as we call it - chicken broth, cilantro, and lemon. I am determined to hold onto this anguish as long as possible because I feel that releasing will dishonor his memory. I know that is crazy and I don't fucking care. Fortunately, I have enough money in the bank to let my bills auto-debit for awhile before I am forced to leave the bed.

This is not a cry for help. There is nothing that could help me right now.