I'm continuing to participate in a 30-day grief writing workshop and yesterday's prompt asked us to explore the passage above. It unexpectedly took me to a place of writing about the truth of what happened, and this was a surprise to me. I'd written a bit about it before, but this went deeper, I think.
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Dear Gareth,
I miss you.
And yet you’re here. Everywhere.
How can that be?
I want to be settled with the new relationship we have. How
I can feel you but not be touched by you. How I can hear your words in others
but not be soothed by your voice. How I can be 100% certain that you’re taking
pleasure in seeing my joy, but I can’t watch your face light up.
I miss you.
I want to soften into that missing. I want to walk gently
into that room with the lights dimmed and know there is nothing to be afraid
of. I want to find comfort in relating to you in a different way.
Right now it just makes me incredibly sad.
This weekend the Daegu Theater Troupe put on a 24-hour play
festival. I remember encouraging you to seek out theater here in Korea after we
talked about what fed us. I remember sending you a link to tryouts for “The
Princess Bride” with this same theater group. I remember talking out with you
how feasible it would really be, even with you an hour away from where
rehearsals were and even with the fact it would seriously cut into the time you
and I spent together.
I wanted you to be fed. I wanted our spirits to be full.
I wanted you to be fed. I wanted our spirits to be full.
I remember how you almost backed out the morning of
rehearsals. You were incredibly stressed and in a bit of a state. You were
agitated and uncertain of yourself. I would not let you quit, just like I knew
you were pushing me through the toughest half-marathon I’d run the winter
before. You can do it. I knew you could do it.
And you did. I remember sitting with you in the large room
at the YMCA in downtown Daegu before tryouts. Forms were filled out.
Introductions were made. Lines were being nervously rehearsed. “Oh, I’m not
trying out. I’m just here to support my boyfriend who is.” I was there to
support you.
How could you not feel that all the way till the end? I’m
still crushed by the idea that you could ever think I abandoned you. How very
loved you felt until the very end. How your refusal (or inability) to get help
for what was troubling you led me to the most difficult decision to date I have
ever had to make.
Space.
I danced around it for you to get help and then drew the
line clearly in the sand. Here. Here is where I must stand to be well and
healthy and not dragged down by your self-destruction and here- here is where
you must be alone to address that. Please address it. Please get well and come
back to me.
You could not get well.
You could not get well.
You spiraled, raged, drank, hit, blotted out, imploded,
refused, drowned, made out, touched, kissed, held, wept, howled, attacked,
threatened, sank down. And then you
crawled out of a window on the fourth floor of an apartment and could not keep
your grip.
You were always gripping on so hard to life. To me. To what
could offer you great joy. You could not hold on.
And this breaks my heart.
I like to think of what tethered you to this world: me, us,
your writing, your theater group, friends at Dongguk University, connections
with a very few that you let in, scattered across the globe. It didn’t come
easily for you. You struggled in each of these areas, although not many saw it.
Your theater group, until the very end, saw you as someone who was jubilant, connected, engaging, and happy. And you certainly could be. What they didn’t see was the incredible anguish and self-hatred you could experience on the way to rehearsal. You and I in the car for the hour drive. Me behind the wheel. You in the passenger seat with your script holding the lines we’d run over and over the night before. You’d get a line wrong and rage would sweep over you. “I’M A CUNT! I’M A CUNT!” you’d scream. Once I even saw you punch yourself in the arm.
Your theater group, until the very end, saw you as someone who was jubilant, connected, engaging, and happy. And you certainly could be. What they didn’t see was the incredible anguish and self-hatred you could experience on the way to rehearsal. You and I in the car for the hour drive. Me behind the wheel. You in the passenger seat with your script holding the lines we’d run over and over the night before. You’d get a line wrong and rage would sweep over you. “I’M A CUNT! I’M A CUNT!” you’d scream. Once I even saw you punch yourself in the arm.
The first time I heard you refer to yourself in this way, I
was shocked. Later, I was only saddened.
You left no room in this life for you to make errors of any kind. You
were your greatest enemy.
How you must have held it in when being around your theater
group. How you must have pushed down that self-criticism when rehearsing with
them is beyond me. How you held on. You were always holding on.
I remember how you’d doubt yourself and all that you said and did when I’d pick you up from rehearsals. “I said [such-and-such] to [so-and-so]. Do you think that was too much? Should I have not said that? Was it funny, or too much? Maybe it was too much.” No one there saw that side of you. You were just funny, charming, likeable Gareth.
You were funny. Charming. And likeable, Gareth. Why would you ever doubt that?
I think you loved being with me so much because that doubt melted in time. I saw it melting. “You really like me, don’t you? You really find me attractive.” You were starting to believe it. Yes. Yes, I do.
And in time, your confidence around me grew. You felt secure. You felt loved. Wanted. Valued. Appreciated. You were certain of my feelings for you and you knew I was genuine. And when I saw bits and pieces of your darker self, the one you tried so desperately to hide from everyone, you found in me a partner who didn't run from what was hard to see. You felt with me a connection that was indescribably strong- one you had never before had. And I felt the same way.
How devastating that must have felt when I drew that line in the sand. What doubt that must have presented to you unless you were fully able to realize and admit to yourself why it was happening. And you weren’t.
I remember how you’d doubt yourself and all that you said and did when I’d pick you up from rehearsals. “I said [such-and-such] to [so-and-so]. Do you think that was too much? Should I have not said that? Was it funny, or too much? Maybe it was too much.” No one there saw that side of you. You were just funny, charming, likeable Gareth.
You were funny. Charming. And likeable, Gareth. Why would you ever doubt that?
I think you loved being with me so much because that doubt melted in time. I saw it melting. “You really like me, don’t you? You really find me attractive.” You were starting to believe it. Yes. Yes, I do.
And in time, your confidence around me grew. You felt secure. You felt loved. Wanted. Valued. Appreciated. You were certain of my feelings for you and you knew I was genuine. And when I saw bits and pieces of your darker self, the one you tried so desperately to hide from everyone, you found in me a partner who didn't run from what was hard to see. You felt with me a connection that was indescribably strong- one you had never before had. And I felt the same way.
How devastating that must have felt when I drew that line in the sand. What doubt that must have presented to you unless you were fully able to realize and admit to yourself why it was happening. And you weren’t.
Why weren’t you?
I remember going to this same 24-hour play festival last
year. You decided to participate, and this was a good thing. I dropped you off
in the morning and went out exploring while you met with your team, worked on
the skit, and rehearsed for that evening’s performance. After the show we’d have to play it by ear.
Traditionally, this theater group likes to hit the drink pretty hard, and
considering how dangerous (and isolating) that is for me to be around, we were
in agreement to go out after and see how it felt. You never wanted me to be
uncomfortable and you certainly valued my sobriety.
“If we go out, I’ll only have one or maybe two beers with everyone, and then we can leave,” you said. I was never one to say anything about what you should do in regards to drinking, but I appreciated your awareness of how hard it had been for me to be here in Korea with such a hard-partying crowd. I had also already been witness to some alcohol-related incidents with you which were less than pleasant and you had voiced some concern about how you wanted to “cut down” or “not drink like that with people anymore.” You said that people may be drinking during the day, but you definitely weren’t down for that. You’d wait and have a few afterwards, but not to worry. You just wanted to have a good time with acting.
When I showed up that night to see you perform, you kissed me and you reeked of alcohol. Fuck. I pulled back a bit. “Oh, Goddam it!” you said. (Here was you being instantly furious with yourself.) “I’m sorry. Goddam it. I’ll brush my teeth. I just had a few at rehearsals. Everyone was drinking. Fuck. Fuck it all. Can’t I have one beer?!” (Sometimes you’d go into a kind of confusing, defensive, self-hating monologue without me inserting any lines whatsoever. It was clear you had had more than one drink.)
You had a show to do. And this should be fun for both of us. I said nothing about the drinking and knew I wouldn’t until we could talk about it later. “It’s ok, babe. Just…have a great show. I’m looking forward to seeing you perform!”
“If we go out, I’ll only have one or maybe two beers with everyone, and then we can leave,” you said. I was never one to say anything about what you should do in regards to drinking, but I appreciated your awareness of how hard it had been for me to be here in Korea with such a hard-partying crowd. I had also already been witness to some alcohol-related incidents with you which were less than pleasant and you had voiced some concern about how you wanted to “cut down” or “not drink like that with people anymore.” You said that people may be drinking during the day, but you definitely weren’t down for that. You’d wait and have a few afterwards, but not to worry. You just wanted to have a good time with acting.
When I showed up that night to see you perform, you kissed me and you reeked of alcohol. Fuck. I pulled back a bit. “Oh, Goddam it!” you said. (Here was you being instantly furious with yourself.) “I’m sorry. Goddam it. I’ll brush my teeth. I just had a few at rehearsals. Everyone was drinking. Fuck. Fuck it all. Can’t I have one beer?!” (Sometimes you’d go into a kind of confusing, defensive, self-hating monologue without me inserting any lines whatsoever. It was clear you had had more than one drink.)
You had a show to do. And this should be fun for both of us. I said nothing about the drinking and knew I wouldn’t until we could talk about it later. “It’s ok, babe. Just…have a great show. I’m looking forward to seeing you perform!”
And the performance was great. Your group included Anna and
Rachel, who I had dinner with last night, by the way- and I will always be
grateful to you for connecting me with these women. You were funny. You got laughs, and I know
that felt good. You delivered your lines with enthusiasm and you were in your
element. All of this was good.
After the show, we decided to join up with everyone at a restaurant. How we ended up walking alone there, I don’t remember. Maybe we stayed back to talk. Either way, you were increasingly agitated- spiraling out with self-hatred and anger. It was never directed at me (until the end), but it was heartbreaking and confusing to see. My discomfort was justified- I am a person who cannot drink with someone who keeps promising not to and then doing it anyway.
“I think I might be one of you.”
After the show, we decided to join up with everyone at a restaurant. How we ended up walking alone there, I don’t remember. Maybe we stayed back to talk. Either way, you were increasingly agitated- spiraling out with self-hatred and anger. It was never directed at me (until the end), but it was heartbreaking and confusing to see. My discomfort was justified- I am a person who cannot drink with someone who keeps promising not to and then doing it anyway.
“I think I might be one of you.”
I didn’t know you had said this to a recovering alcoholic
friend until after you died.
“The thing is, I just need to not drink at home alone anymore.”
You had been doing some late-night drinking and having
trouble getting to work.
“I just need to learn not to get online when I’ve been drinking.”
This after disturbing late-night communication with me and a
threatening message to your former recruiter.
“I’ll only have one or two drinks and then we’ll leave.”
This was at Thippy’s birthday party when I was worried about
being the only one not drinking. And many drinks for you later, I decided to
leave.
“I’m going out with Martin for some makgeolli
and then I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
I woke up at 6 a.m. and you were still not home. You had stayed out all night drinking and crashed on Martin’s floor.
“Don’t tell Bridget
about my drinking.”
You said this to several friends in Gyeongju who were
witness to your heavy drinking mid-week when I wasn’t around. I found out about
this also after you died.
“I think Gareth has a problem. Sometime he shows up at work and he doesn’t even look like himself.”
Your coworkers were getting concerned.
“I think Gareth has a problem. Sometime he shows up at work and he doesn’t even look like himself.”
Your coworkers were getting concerned.
You held on so tightly. But you had to let go.
How hard was it to hold on when we were together? After Thippy’s birthday party (and that was early on in our dating), I never saw you get drunk again. If it weren’t for those two disturbing late-night calls (one where you thought you were getting fired from your job and you screamed “They’re laughing at me! They’re all laughing at me! I’m going to stab them and stab myself!”)- if it weren’t for these calls, I may not have had a clue.
Because- you held on so tightly.
You appeared so…normal…to everyone else. Those closer to you may witness a guy who was occasionally stressed out or a little hard on himself, but still, nothing to note but a bit of quirkiness.
Those even closer may have seen a guy who could drink a bit too much sometimes, but again, doesn’t everyone over here?
And then there was me. Who saw it all except for what you tried so hard to keep hidden. What a cruel joke that the love of your life would be a sober person while you were needing alcohol to manage your demons.
And then I drew that line. I drew it after you had agreed to see a psychiatrist in Seoul and not to drink anymore. You were desperate to keep me near, and I was desperate not to let your destruction, even if I only saw it sporadically, take me with you. You had sent me an adorable email of a 3-pronged approach to you getting better and I was cautiously optimistic. I went to Thailand for a 2-week vacation and you had great plans of exercise, getting back into meditation, eating better, taking the meds the psychiatrist had prescribed for what he thought was a “social anxiety disorder,” and not drinking. You had decided to lay off of the booze completely.
Then came the late-night drunk messages a few nights before I was to return. They were almost indecipherable. They were confusing. They were, again, heartbreaking, because I knew you would not or could not do it. I chose not to respond until I could be detached enough not to say anything I’d regret. Your messages increased in desperation. I addressed your drinking. You denied it and then were defensive, saying you missed me, that was all. You were missing me and that’s why you drank. You shouldn’t have been online, you said. You shouldn’t have sent those messages, you explained.
Oh, Gareth. Why was this happening?
When I explain you were going to have to choose to get better without me- that it was too painful to watch you dip into this behavior and I’d need to step back completely while you did or didn’t get better, you snapped.
Over a hundred angry emails, increasingly disturbing and eventually threatening, in a 12-hour period. Things I thought you were never capable of saying to me, your love, your love-person, your sweetheart, the you of your words, were being hurled across space to land on my computer screen over and over and over. You were losing it completely.
How hard was it to hold on when we were together? After Thippy’s birthday party (and that was early on in our dating), I never saw you get drunk again. If it weren’t for those two disturbing late-night calls (one where you thought you were getting fired from your job and you screamed “They’re laughing at me! They’re all laughing at me! I’m going to stab them and stab myself!”)- if it weren’t for these calls, I may not have had a clue.
Because- you held on so tightly.
You appeared so…normal…to everyone else. Those closer to you may witness a guy who was occasionally stressed out or a little hard on himself, but still, nothing to note but a bit of quirkiness.
Those even closer may have seen a guy who could drink a bit too much sometimes, but again, doesn’t everyone over here?
And then there was me. Who saw it all except for what you tried so hard to keep hidden. What a cruel joke that the love of your life would be a sober person while you were needing alcohol to manage your demons.
And then I drew that line. I drew it after you had agreed to see a psychiatrist in Seoul and not to drink anymore. You were desperate to keep me near, and I was desperate not to let your destruction, even if I only saw it sporadically, take me with you. You had sent me an adorable email of a 3-pronged approach to you getting better and I was cautiously optimistic. I went to Thailand for a 2-week vacation and you had great plans of exercise, getting back into meditation, eating better, taking the meds the psychiatrist had prescribed for what he thought was a “social anxiety disorder,” and not drinking. You had decided to lay off of the booze completely.
Then came the late-night drunk messages a few nights before I was to return. They were almost indecipherable. They were confusing. They were, again, heartbreaking, because I knew you would not or could not do it. I chose not to respond until I could be detached enough not to say anything I’d regret. Your messages increased in desperation. I addressed your drinking. You denied it and then were defensive, saying you missed me, that was all. You were missing me and that’s why you drank. You shouldn’t have been online, you said. You shouldn’t have sent those messages, you explained.
Oh, Gareth. Why was this happening?
When I explain you were going to have to choose to get better without me- that it was too painful to watch you dip into this behavior and I’d need to step back completely while you did or didn’t get better, you snapped.
Over a hundred angry emails, increasingly disturbing and eventually threatening, in a 12-hour period. Things I thought you were never capable of saying to me, your love, your love-person, your sweetheart, the you of your words, were being hurled across space to land on my computer screen over and over and over. You were losing it completely.
You lost it completely.
You could not hold on any longer and you slipped. You fell. We died right there together and I had no idea.
Like I knew you wouldn’t actually “stab them and stab [yourself]” in the alcohol-fueled rage you expressed six months earlier in that unexpected late-night call about your job, I also knew you didn’t mean what you were typing. I knew that you were hurling grenades to try to protect yourself. I braced for the time when it would hit you- what you were doing and saying- and your great grief and remorse would set in.
How would you be able to hold on when you realized what you had said to your love, your love-person, your sweetheart, the you of your words?
And when it did start to sink in, you were smothered by the weight of it. Devastated. There was no amount of whisky to dull the sharp edges you had created.
Less than four weeks, my love. Less than for weeks left on this earth for you after this incident. Four weeks of intensive drinking, of self-hatred, of trying to numb out in anyway possible. Less than four weeks of trying to hold it together, to hold on.
Less than four weeks of spiraling, raging, drinking, hitting, blotting out, imploding, refusing, drowning, making out, touching, kissing, holding, weeping, howling, attacking, threatening, sinking down. Less than four weeks of this. And then you were dead.
You had been up and drinking for more than 48-hours straight at the point that you climbed out, turned around, and lowered your feet into the space below.
You could not hold on any longer and you slipped. You fell. We died right there together and I had no idea.
Like I knew you wouldn’t actually “stab them and stab [yourself]” in the alcohol-fueled rage you expressed six months earlier in that unexpected late-night call about your job, I also knew you didn’t mean what you were typing. I knew that you were hurling grenades to try to protect yourself. I braced for the time when it would hit you- what you were doing and saying- and your great grief and remorse would set in.
How would you be able to hold on when you realized what you had said to your love, your love-person, your sweetheart, the you of your words?
And when it did start to sink in, you were smothered by the weight of it. Devastated. There was no amount of whisky to dull the sharp edges you had created.
Less than four weeks, my love. Less than for weeks left on this earth for you after this incident. Four weeks of intensive drinking, of self-hatred, of trying to numb out in anyway possible. Less than four weeks of trying to hold it together, to hold on.
Less than four weeks of spiraling, raging, drinking, hitting, blotting out, imploding, refusing, drowning, making out, touching, kissing, holding, weeping, howling, attacking, threatening, sinking down. Less than four weeks of this. And then you were dead.
You had been up and drinking for more than 48-hours straight at the point that you climbed out, turned around, and lowered your feet into the space below.
You could not hold on.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I was not enough. That we were not enough.
That the new friends and theater group and joy and love were not enough.
You could not hold on.
Yesterday I drove downtown to the YMCA in Daegu to meet my own team for the 24-hour play festival. We worked with the script. We went thrifting for costumes. We rehearsed. We blocked. And at 7:00 we performed to an audience. I did this for you. I did this because you loved it and you did it and you would have loved nothing more than to have seen me do it as well. “Gareth would have been so proud of you,” Anna told me last night. “He would have really loved seeing you tonight. You did a great job.”
You would have. It’s true. And after it was over and the crowds were leaving the building, I stood in that empty room, the one where I had watched you perform the year before and where I had just performed, myself, the weight of it sunk in.
I missed you. I missed you so much that it physically hurt. And here came the sobbing. The crippling grief that causes me to grab at my stomach and my heart as though I could reach in and pull out what is causing me pain. The missing of you. God, Gareth, I miss you so much.
And this is so painful to write. Even more painful to feel. I want you back here with me. Your hand in my hand. Our foreheads touching. In love. Happy. Laughing. Next to me.
You could not hold on to that.
But, my love, my sweetheart, my love-person…I will do that for us now. I will hold on. Even when I don't think I have it in me to hold myself here. I will grab this life with all of my might and I will hold on.
Love,
Bridget
Yesterday I drove downtown to the YMCA in Daegu to meet my own team for the 24-hour play festival. We worked with the script. We went thrifting for costumes. We rehearsed. We blocked. And at 7:00 we performed to an audience. I did this for you. I did this because you loved it and you did it and you would have loved nothing more than to have seen me do it as well. “Gareth would have been so proud of you,” Anna told me last night. “He would have really loved seeing you tonight. You did a great job.”
You would have. It’s true. And after it was over and the crowds were leaving the building, I stood in that empty room, the one where I had watched you perform the year before and where I had just performed, myself, the weight of it sunk in.
I missed you. I missed you so much that it physically hurt. And here came the sobbing. The crippling grief that causes me to grab at my stomach and my heart as though I could reach in and pull out what is causing me pain. The missing of you. God, Gareth, I miss you so much.
And this is so painful to write. Even more painful to feel. I want you back here with me. Your hand in my hand. Our foreheads touching. In love. Happy. Laughing. Next to me.
You could not hold on to that.
But, my love, my sweetheart, my love-person…I will do that for us now. I will hold on. Even when I don't think I have it in me to hold myself here. I will grab this life with all of my might and I will hold on.
Love,
Bridget
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| Right after last year's 24-hour theater festival. |
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| With Rae, Jackie, and Alyssa after our performance last night at Daegu Theater Troupe's 24-hour play festival. Seen here with the awards we swept: best play, best actress, best writer, and best use of a prop. Gareth would have loved this. |
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