The Bags Under Our Eyes Are Designer

Her text was simple, “I need help. Can you come over?” 

But it scared me, so I called her.  

I needed to hear her voice and make sure that she was okay. 

Even though I already knew she wasn’t. 

She was hysterical and I couldn’t understand anything she said through the sobs.  

My heart dropped, and I was instantly flooded with thoughts I didn’t want to have. 

I told her I was on my way and hung up. 

What else could I do?

Her face was puffy and her blue eyes were hidden behind the shells of swollen eyelids.  

I hugged her and immediately felt the anxiety radiating from her. 

She missed him and couldn’t figure out why he was gone.  

Why was he gone, she kept asking.

She needed to know, but nothing she came up with made any sense. 

It didn’t make sense and she couldn’t handle it. 

She didn’t have to tell me who she was referring to - I already knew.  

I had the same questions eating me up inside.  

Because no, it didn’t make sense

It never would.  

And we would never be able to get over that part.  

The part of not knowing or understanding how one day our friend was there laughing with us, and the next he was gone. 

Just like that. 

And we were supposed to just keep living life without him. 

Even though we didn’t know how. 

I knew she had been drinking, I could smell it on her breath.  

It was a trigger for that grief and we both knew it.   

I couldn't lie to her.

I could’t tell her that everything would be okay and that time would heal us. 

We both knew that that wasn’t true.

But I told her it would eventually get easier. 

And that somehow we would get through it together.  

I reminded her what Ben had told us about grief being like water.  

About how sometimes it was calm enough for us to ignore, but sometimes the tide could change so quickly that it caused waves strong enough to crush us.  

And that was what it felt like seeing her like that.  

Like I was being crushed against the cliffs and pulled under that same fucking water I couldn't keep my head above anymore. 

And sitting on that leather couch together, tears streaming down her beautiful face, I knew she was in that water with me. 

And seeing her cry reminded me of why we felt like we were drowning.  

Our friend had died, and although we had been pretending that we were okay, underneath our forced smiles and perfectly tailored images, we were both still covered in so much pain. 

And if you looked close enough, you could catch a glimpse of the dark hollow circles under our eyes that spoke the truth, even when we didn’t.

I drove down the hill faster than what was safe, but I didn’t care.  

I wanted to drive fast and I wanted to be reckless.  

I wanted to understand everything - but I couldn’t.  

So I drove faster - because I could. 

I pressed the gas and swerved around the dark corners, expecting to crash at any moment. 

Welcoming it with a yearning for anything to interrupt what I was feeling.

Because I had learned to live in a world of expected disaster.  

I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what.  

The anxiety was creeping in and I couldn’t handle it. 

The feeling of not being in control. 

But the sound of my brothers voice over the car speakers was an instant comfort.  

I needed that.  

I needed the comfort of someone who could understand my pain. 

And even though I was composed as I spoke, his tone told me he knew I wasn't okay.  

He called me by my nickname and told me it was okay to be sad, reminded me that it was okay to cry.  

And then I did.  

Because I couldn’t hold it in anymore.  

And he sat on the phone with me and allowed me to feel my grief.

“CJ is everywhere,” he told me.  

“In the ladybugs you see, in the trees, and in everything all around you.

He's with you all of the time, even if you don’t see him or feel him. 

And it’s okay to be sad and to miss him, you shouldn’t try to hold that in.  

And one day you'll see him again and he’s going to hug you and tell you you shouldn’t have been sad and he’s going to tell you all about how great everything is after death.” 

I was silent. 

Listening as he tried to comfort his baby sister. 

And then he corrected himself.

“Actually, no, he wouldn’t say that.”  

He would run up to you yelling “Yass Bitch, yassss,” clapping his hands in the air like he always did, and tell you about how much he’s been partying it up in the afterlife.” 

It was only then, through my tears, that I began to laugh.  

Because my brother was right.  About absolutely everything.