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I won't say I think about her every day, but I do generally think about her several times a week. It's been 36 years and here I still am, remembering Jill.
But today was different.
I got up, noted the time (checking on how much sleep I got - 5 hours!) and suddenly realized today was the anniversary of her death. It's interesting because I hadn't thought about the anniversary since Andrew died, yet I saw the date and was jolted into a different grief.
I've been carrying this around for a long time. I have talked to a couple of different therapists but never in the context of her death alone. It was always an addendum - "Oh and my best friend died when I was 18, really fucked me up for a few years" while trying to deal with something else. It's funny how i carry sadness around like a backpack slung over my shoulder - I can just shift the weight of it whenever it starts to hurt or put it down for a minute while I catch my breath. But unpacking it? Ugh, what a chore. Better to just peek in every now and then and just fling it back over my shoulder and soldier on.
I've been asked before to explain what was so great about jill, our friendship. I've been asked to tell stories about her. And I never really could. Because it's like asking a fish to explain how water feels. Jill and I swam around each other in life and even though we were clearly separate people, our friendship made us that known duo - WendyandJill - that everyone just assumed went together. I could describe her in words, short staccato images that would only give you a veneer of her impression when she walked into the room, but I couldn't think of stories, events, memorable moments that I held onto.... and I don't know why. It's bothered me over the years... it's made me question my loyalty, my love and my heart. I've truly wondered if there was something wrong with me, that I could mourn someone so deeply yet have nothing to say about her when asked. The best I could ever come up with was "Jill was the kind of person you just had to experience. Words fall short"
And yet... today, for the first time ever, I remembered something from our childhood. I remembered something from our teen years, I remembered something from right before she died. I stood outside, having a smoke and staring at some basic trees and I suddenly remembered so many things from our past togehter. And words came to me... and images.... and even feelings and scents... it was like I had never really remembered her before at all and now she was flooding my senses. Even as I write, right now, she still is.
Jill was slightly tall for her age, with a shock of dark brown hair that she dyed a mahogany hue and shaved in what now is called a Goth Hawk but short enough to be spikey on top and long enough to look slightly feminine. She was always on the thin side, not much for boobs or butt really... slightly androgynous looks really, with high cheekbones and slanting jaw that nearly came to a point. Her face was also androgynous but pretty in that pale, freckled way denoting Scottish ancestry. She loved Goth attire (this was back in the 80s, after all) and usually was seen wearing a long black trench coat and black jeans. She wasn't much for jewelry or makeup - just enough to look like a girl as she'd sometimes say, because she was not a fussy person. Even when she wore a dress, she looked like the child of David Bowie and Robert Smith. Ha, she'd be thrilled if you described her that way - Bowie and Smith were her idols. She had a way of smoking a cigarette that made her automatically look cool - eyes slitted, mouth slightly curled up, shoulders hunched over.. it was almost gumshoe noir. Like she needed a lone street lamp over her and fog around her ankles. Her one childish nod was always wearing hi-top Chucks. To be fair most everyone we knew wore hi-top Chucks. But Jills were always the most unique. No one had Chucks that looked like hers because she decorated her own.
Jill was an artist. We'd all known that since she was a child. One of those people who could pick up a pencil and start drawing anything; the pencil would move effortlessly as if she'd been doing it for 30 years. She could draw in different styles, as well - cartoony, sketch-like, comic-book style, or if you had time, she could do pointillism. It was just known and assumed she'd be going to art school once high school was over. I gave up being jealous of her ability somewhere around 5th grade. By that time it was like being jealous of Rembrandt. Just enjoy the talent in your presence.
Jill was a swift wit. Like many artists, she had the ability to see things other people didn't see. So she could say strange and intersting things that other people didn't always understand. But she was also shy, introverted and self-contained. She preferred to be in the background. Which was partly why we were such friends - I was bombastic and passionate and constantly commanding attention, while she sat behind me, murmuring things that bowled me over with laughter. Sometimes, to fuck with people, we'd flirt with each other. Winking nd using double-entendres and knowing looks. Once I think we even kissed. But it was hard to keep up and we usually ended up laughing in the middle, much to the consternation of nearby men.
Today, I have remembered so many things about her, about us, and the lives we lived together. I was strange and wonderful how so many memories came back to me all at once. For the first time, I could think about those things instead of the night she died. Always before, just thinking of her name brought back only the bad memory, that one night, replaying over and over in my head.
I'm going to write those memories. I'm afraid of forgetting again but instead of trying to get them all out of me at once, i'm going to let them simmer, turn them over in my mind, hold them to me and be happy for a change. Today was the first time I thought of Jill and I smiled first.
But today was different.
I got up, noted the time (checking on how much sleep I got - 5 hours!) and suddenly realized today was the anniversary of her death. It's interesting because I hadn't thought about the anniversary since Andrew died, yet I saw the date and was jolted into a different grief.
I've been carrying this around for a long time. I have talked to a couple of different therapists but never in the context of her death alone. It was always an addendum - "Oh and my best friend died when I was 18, really fucked me up for a few years" while trying to deal with something else. It's funny how i carry sadness around like a backpack slung over my shoulder - I can just shift the weight of it whenever it starts to hurt or put it down for a minute while I catch my breath. But unpacking it? Ugh, what a chore. Better to just peek in every now and then and just fling it back over my shoulder and soldier on.
I've been asked before to explain what was so great about jill, our friendship. I've been asked to tell stories about her. And I never really could. Because it's like asking a fish to explain how water feels. Jill and I swam around each other in life and even though we were clearly separate people, our friendship made us that known duo - WendyandJill - that everyone just assumed went together. I could describe her in words, short staccato images that would only give you a veneer of her impression when she walked into the room, but I couldn't think of stories, events, memorable moments that I held onto.... and I don't know why. It's bothered me over the years... it's made me question my loyalty, my love and my heart. I've truly wondered if there was something wrong with me, that I could mourn someone so deeply yet have nothing to say about her when asked. The best I could ever come up with was "Jill was the kind of person you just had to experience. Words fall short"
And yet... today, for the first time ever, I remembered something from our childhood. I remembered something from our teen years, I remembered something from right before she died. I stood outside, having a smoke and staring at some basic trees and I suddenly remembered so many things from our past togehter. And words came to me... and images.... and even feelings and scents... it was like I had never really remembered her before at all and now she was flooding my senses. Even as I write, right now, she still is.
Jill was slightly tall for her age, with a shock of dark brown hair that she dyed a mahogany hue and shaved in what now is called a Goth Hawk but short enough to be spikey on top and long enough to look slightly feminine. She was always on the thin side, not much for boobs or butt really... slightly androgynous looks really, with high cheekbones and slanting jaw that nearly came to a point. Her face was also androgynous but pretty in that pale, freckled way denoting Scottish ancestry. She loved Goth attire (this was back in the 80s, after all) and usually was seen wearing a long black trench coat and black jeans. She wasn't much for jewelry or makeup - just enough to look like a girl as she'd sometimes say, because she was not a fussy person. Even when she wore a dress, she looked like the child of David Bowie and Robert Smith. Ha, she'd be thrilled if you described her that way - Bowie and Smith were her idols. She had a way of smoking a cigarette that made her automatically look cool - eyes slitted, mouth slightly curled up, shoulders hunched over.. it was almost gumshoe noir. Like she needed a lone street lamp over her and fog around her ankles. Her one childish nod was always wearing hi-top Chucks. To be fair most everyone we knew wore hi-top Chucks. But Jills were always the most unique. No one had Chucks that looked like hers because she decorated her own.
Jill was an artist. We'd all known that since she was a child. One of those people who could pick up a pencil and start drawing anything; the pencil would move effortlessly as if she'd been doing it for 30 years. She could draw in different styles, as well - cartoony, sketch-like, comic-book style, or if you had time, she could do pointillism. It was just known and assumed she'd be going to art school once high school was over. I gave up being jealous of her ability somewhere around 5th grade. By that time it was like being jealous of Rembrandt. Just enjoy the talent in your presence.
Jill was a swift wit. Like many artists, she had the ability to see things other people didn't see. So she could say strange and intersting things that other people didn't always understand. But she was also shy, introverted and self-contained. She preferred to be in the background. Which was partly why we were such friends - I was bombastic and passionate and constantly commanding attention, while she sat behind me, murmuring things that bowled me over with laughter. Sometimes, to fuck with people, we'd flirt with each other. Winking nd using double-entendres and knowing looks. Once I think we even kissed. But it was hard to keep up and we usually ended up laughing in the middle, much to the consternation of nearby men.
Today, I have remembered so many things about her, about us, and the lives we lived together. I was strange and wonderful how so many memories came back to me all at once. For the first time, I could think about those things instead of the night she died. Always before, just thinking of her name brought back only the bad memory, that one night, replaying over and over in my head.
I'm going to write those memories. I'm afraid of forgetting again but instead of trying to get them all out of me at once, i'm going to let them simmer, turn them over in my mind, hold them to me and be happy for a change. Today was the first time I thought of Jill and I smiled first.
