Memorial

And so it came to pass that they did gather together to mourn his passing.

The memorial was yesterday, and it was beautiful. Quite a few members of the literature faculty were involved. Very few broke down while they on stage. The readings were moving and varied, centering around his tastes and what was important to him.

Trying not to cry for over an hour is pretty exhausting. Every tear that escapes your control feels as hot as blood. Every tactic you use to keep from breaking down (breathing deeply, distracting yourself, biting your finger, concentrating on something simple, and finally, looking up to keep the tears filling your eyes from spilling down your face) ends up taking much more energy than it's worth.

And in the end, who cares? I was trying not to cry because I knew that if I was to start crying I would be A) loud and B) unable to stop for some time. But if I could have done it quietly, if I could have sat there and leaked stoically for an hour and a half, I would have felt so much better after.

I hate to be touched when I am not feeling good. When I am sad, upset, depressed, frustrated, angry, whatever. I hate physical contact. I didn't realize that until yesterday. When I'm in a good mood I want nothing more than to touch, to hold, to brush against, to cuddle, to fight, to play. In a bad mood nothing feels good or comforting. I'm realizing more and more that I am the only person that can bring me back around. If I get upset, I need to be the one who calms myself down and sets myself straight. That used to be my mom's job. Strange, right? You only realize when you grow up all of the things that were done for you as a child.

It's too easy to stay in a funk. A man that I admired, a man that inspired me, a friend of mine is dead. I have no possible future with him in it. I can no longer send him articles from the Times that I found interesting. I can no longer expect snarky return messages that point out eight things I had not even begun to think about. And I treasure that sorrow. But I also get this picture of my head of Steven looking at me mourning him and saying in that characteristic Steven manner, "Well? What are you waiting for?"

And so I reorient myself, forever changed and forever remembering, but moving onwards, towards the goals he helped me set.

Damn I miss him.