For a year now, I've been lying to myself about what this pandemic has done to me, done for me. As I'm sitting here tonight, I'm entering a week which is the hardest week I've faced in many years. We've been instructed since childhood, that time heals all wounds but I'm not sure if this is completely true, especially for the wounds which do not callous. There isn't a magic solution that's going to help with this pain which still lingers within my spirit.
The memory of this exact time in 2019, often runs through my head. Could I have done more, stayed longer, used my voice in order to save my friend. I know none of this is my fault but for some reason, I feel as though I was so close to him during his final days and I missed every sign. No one knows for sure when something like this will take place, there weren't any verbal indications of him saying, "Mayu, you know what, this is where I'm at", nothing, just his voice and strange actions the last time I saw him.
We spoke Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday he was gone. There are many who were left reeling from his passing, he had a presence about him which was larger than life; he wanted to bring the people together just as much as he wanted to bring the music together. IF he had it his way and IF I were a few years younger, he would have had me as his fresh skinhead recruit, wearing Docs, suspenders, and throwing punches just because I was with next to him and his cronies.
Here we are now, me and hundreds of his cronies, still wondering why. I still cry, I still think of all the things which have taken place since his passing. The amount of times, I wish I could tell him something is real. "Man, that guy would love to see this picture, he would love to hear about this trip, he would love to hear this song, he would love to see his team, he would love..."
I would love for nothing else than to rerun that Thursday afternoon and ask him for his gun, that was tucked into the waistband of his shorts, I would love for nothing other than to ask him if he was really okay, I would love for nothing other than to have received a phone call on Saturday morning telling me that he was at wits end and didn't know what to do. I've been blessed with patience, I've been blessed with a voice which I failed to use. For once in my life, I was fucking quiet because I was scared! Oh, the internal battles that I have with this voice of mine, whether or not I should open my mouth.
THE LIE is everything has been about finding peace and patience, those pieces are partial truths within this journey I've been on for the last year. The truth is I've been holding on to pain, I've thought about how this world is loud but death is quiet, final.
A year ago, I was a different person, I hadn't been exposed to anything like this type of loss. I wonder if we're all masking our feelings in order not to appear weak; in retrospect, there's nothing wrong with being 'weak' if you're being honest with yourself and others. These days have left me feeling weak and I'm thankful for those who've held me close, not knowing that my light is dim.
I recently read, that those who appear the strongest are often the ones you need to check on the most and this hit me in a place which beats at a steady pace. There are so many people who are suffering from depression, people who appear to have things together whilst their minds are falling apart.
My voice isn't the loudest in the room, my voice isn't the deepest, my voice is special, much like your voices too; WE need to remember to use them if something feels off within the lives of others, whether we know them or not. A kind word can save someone's day.
Thank you to those of you who've loved me, when I didn't think I was lovable, thank you to those of you, who've held me when my tears began to flow.