This past weekend, I bailed on social plans which was and still is a conundrum. I moved back to my hometown, but I have not lived here in almost 20 years. My social connections to this place are pale shadows of an adolescence riddled with anxiety, family of origin trauma, and a lack of confidence. I did not move out of Chico, I ran away from it. I am scared moving back here was a mistake I made in the shock of your death. I am scared I will wake up amidst this time stollen by Grief and not only not know myself, not have my life with you, but lack the social foundation to help me find who I am. This all touches into the deeper fears that I am a person who has had too much pain, that no one can help me hold it, and I will be alone forever. I digress.

Part of bailing on social plans this past weekend was my failure to gain the momentum necessary to shower and get ready for the public consumption of my presence. I feel embarrassed to admit how hard it is to leave my home, to pretend like I care about what I look like, to prepare for the small talk that happens when people dance around knowing I am barely holding it together. So much of my life is spent in the chokehold of avoiding and then confronting Grief that I feel like I lost the ability to create small talk. The idea of pulling myself together on top of having to find parking on a Saturday night was too much. Instead, I planned to have an edible, take a bath, and watch the SNL 50^th Anniversary Concert. As I told Heather, I did not go to the in-person show (Sorry, Deep Cuts and Lishbills), but I was attending a show in my living room… and in my heart. [insert winking emoji and laughing emoji here:_________].

I really cannot digest how much delight watching that program brought me. I even watched it sober the next day with my dad to get a sense of “was it that good or was it the edible?”. Conclusion: it really was that good. I knew the words to every song. I have core memories associated to my parents teaching me via osmosis every artist. Dad listening to Nirvana and David Bowie. Mom exposing me to Lauren Hill, Devo and Cher. I can still see the endless piles of cds in and out of their cases (and sometimes in the wrong cases entirely) as they rotated in and out of the 6-cd changer in our living room. I made you listen to Tchaikovsky’s Peter and the Wolfe once, do you remember? That cd was a consistent rotation for me.

It is through music that I learned the complexity of living, of a shared language that articulates culture, history, politics, and art. It is also through music that I found you. One of our first conversations was about how beautiful Matt Berninger’s voice was. Music ties all of our happy memories together. Memories of you and I dancing to Robyn in your living room when we first met. Of listening to the Classic Road Trip Playlist on our way to the beach. Of me teaching you about David Bowie, Prince, Broken Social Scene, and Beyonce while you taught me about The Boss, Billy Joel, Bon Iver, and where you were when you first heard Ghostland Observatory. Of you walking out to greet me in the morning with a pump-up song as if making some grand entrance, just to see me laugh. Of the moment the week before you died when I faked indignation when you could not name Bonnie Raitt as she prompted us to give them something to talk about.

Music created shared space for us in a life that really only seemed to narrow for you. I soaked in the bath on Saturday night while Snoop lit joints on the stage at Radio City Music Hall. I felt a sense of awe that this particular group of artists was performing the music that punctuated my life, but I never experienced live in person. I had a moment of feeling deeply relaxed and connected with a part of myself I have not seen in so long: Joy. I started crying not because I was sad, but because I was relieved to know Joy was still in this shell of a human somewhere. Then Bonnie Raitt sang about making people love her when they do not, and I felt a little too Bridget Jones to stay in the bath. Joy is fleeting.

This weekend marked 100 days since you died. All I want to do is talk to you about what I thought of this anniversary special, of realizing Joy was missing all this time. But you are not here. I have an event in my calendar for this coming weekend called Nacho Bowl. You accepted the invite. I suggested last year that we make the anniversary of your suicide attempt and resultant spinal cord injury have a different meaning, one steeped in something more joyful than all the pain it really represented. You liked the suggestion and, as we pulled apart some nachos made in our air fryer, Nacho Bowl was born. I cannot believe you are not here to do this with me, but I guess that is what my life is now. Shock that you are not here and my feeble attempts to continue trying to leave my house anyway.

This picture popped up on my phone today. Your hair looks WILD and I think that must be why I took it. Taken on 2/17/23.