The last time I saw my best friend alive, it was 9:00pm at a house party at The University of Arkansas, and I stood there, in the front yard of someone’s house, backing away from him because I wanted to finish a run.
18 years old – our first week of college – he was visiting on his way to a Mississippi school.
Linds, he pleaded, reaching out for my shoulder. Just stay. Christ, don’t run.
Maybe it’s the fitness Instagram ads peppering my feed, or the insidious amount of leftover sweets positioned as a shrine on our kitchen counter, haunting my waking hours.
Or the return to schedule after 15 days of nonstop travel and eating out.
Or maybe I’m just basking in the blooming guilt of what I ate over the holidays.
Whatever the reason, it happens almost every January.
9 years ago on 9/15/07, my best friend fell out of a tree and in a moment, he was gone.
He was just – gone. My life, his family, our friends – forever altered the night my best friend went to fetch a football from a tree, and a branch snapped.
There are images of that day that seem so clear – there are hours I can’t remember at all.
70+ phone calls. The muffled ring tone I thought was my alarm.
“Your phone’s been going off ALL morning,” my roommate complained.
Groggy, displaced, unaware – I picked up.
“He’s dead,” my best friend screamed. She screamed. I do remember that.
“Bradley,” she screamed. “Bradley fell. He fell. His brain. He was – he climbed a tree. He fell out of a tree.”
“He WHAT?” I said. “Say words Kristina – say fucking words,” I felt the phone go limp in my hand.
“He fell out of a tree,” she sobbed. “Jordan called. They all called. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN. Lindsey, he’s gone. I don’t know what to do. He’s gone. He’s dead.”
The last night I ever saw my best friend alive-it was 9pm at a fraternity party at The University of Arkansas, and I was standing there in the front yard backing away from him because I needed to finish a run.
18-years old- my first week of college- he was visiting with his parents on his way to University of Mississippi.
Linds, he pleaded, reaching out for my shoulder. Just stay. Christ, you don’t need to run so much.
I’ll be back, I’d laughed – windshorts hitting my leg. I’ll run home and change and I’ll come back.
But it’s my only night here, he sputtered– yelling down the hill with a red solo cup in his hand– his shorts hanging at the knee. Promise you’ll come back?
Maybe, I’d waved, smiling. I’ll call Riley.
But I was gone before he answered–running. Running because I’d eaten 3 bowls of Special K Fruit N’ Yogurt. Running because I was scared and the ED voice was screeching– And in the end, I didn’t go back.
Scared of calories, scared of loss of control, scared of losing my underweight frame- I texted him.
Goodnight, I wrote, Have fun with Riley–
I met him in the morning– a letter in hand. I love you, I whispered, pulling him close.
Love you too, he mumbled– Because he didn’t know how to be mad.
Don’t be upset, I grinned. I wrote you a letter, didn’t I?
He took it from my hand. I wish you had come back, he said, before turning to get into his parents car.
See you later- drive safe, I waved as he and his parents pulled out of the parking lot– my best friend in the middle seat– his backpack with my letter.
I’ll see him soon–I thought- I’ll make it up later.
And then you– my best friend– who carried me to bed when I fell asleep on the couch.
One month later– you pretty little boy– You fell from a tree, and you died.
8 years later I will always regret not spending that night with you.
Happy 27th Birthday Bradley Jameson- You are so loved and missed! Made that video above 6 years ago, and the only thing I’d change is some of my weak grammar. Love to you, your fam, and our friends that made this video (and the hours of film I still have somewhere in my parents house) possible.
Eating disorders kill, it’s true; but they kill your memories before they ever kill you.
8/16/2007, the last morning I saw my BMJ (Left of me)
The first time we fought, I tell people we were in the 2nd grade.
Truth is, it might have been 3rd, but neither of us remember anymore so at some point we resigned ourselves to this story.
End of the day– walking out of class- you snuck up behind me and pulled on the tail of my backpack.
Your bag isn’t cool, you said, brushing past.
It’s Lion King, I said.
No one wears those. You pointed at your back. We wear Jansport.
I don’t like Jansport, I said.
Then you’re not very cool, you said.
What follows next is hazy – we’d admit – but after telling the story for 20 years, we’ve agreed that you were being obnoxious and at some point I turned, fist clenched, and socked you in the face.
(And yes, I’m writing this with full knowledge that I’ll do absolutely nothing else but acknowledge it in order to look a little more ”in tune with Mother Nature”)
Anyway, took me a couple days to spit this post out.
Had a rough time- (Ask my roommates, they tiptoed around me last night as I guzzled Diet Pepsi and cursed on the couch)
The problem is that it’s a hard subject.
I’ve written about it before- but there’s something paralyzingly painstaking-
about trying to walk the line between self-pity and grief.
I wrote it because I want to relate- not because I want the pity of having lost.
We will all lose in our lives- we will all lose in a way that affects us differently than the next.
But, I felt like this has been a major part of my recovery-
Dealing with the things we find uncomfortable- no matter how many years down the road.
And now– it’s 2 ½ weeks later and you’re sitting on your therapists couch the day after New Years.
So you called them? She asks.
Earlier, you say.
How was it?
Fine, normal. Good to hear their voices.
You’re close to his family?
You nod.
We haven’t really talked about your friend, she says. He died when you were young, right?
You nod. First month of college.
Can you tell me about him?
You look at her. What about him?
Wherever you want.
I don’t know, you pause. He died on a night I watched Moulin Rouge in my dorm room.
Why do you think you remember that?
You shrug. Grief makes you remember weird things.
I’m going to ask you to explain that.
You hate when she says that.
I don’t really know how, you say. I just remember random things– I remember I had 76 phone calls and my roommate was blow-drying her hair.
Is any of that significant?
You shake your head. No. It was normal– that’s what I remember. Everything was normal and then it wasn’t.
She nods. And what was it like after?
In what way?
What changed? she asks.
You’re getting annoyed but don’t know why.
Everything changed, you say, flatly. But it had to.
Do you think your eating disorder got worse?
It was getting worse before, you say. It just made it easier to blame on him later.
Alright, she says. So I’ll ask again– do you feel like your eating disorder worsened after he died?
Obviously, you say defensively. But it was my choice.
Of course it was, she agrees. Do you think about why?
No–I just didn’t know what else to do.
What did you get from it? Can you remember?
Peace, you say– And then you feel selfish and try to explain– It was like we got a deadline to grieve–
She nods.
We got this gifted amount of time and then we were just supposed to be over it–Move on. Forget about it– you pause. I never forgot.
Okay, she says. So let’s talk about what that meant for your eating.
I don’t want to talk about my eating, you say. I’m so tired of talking about it I could scream. That’s all we do here– talk about food. I’m fucking sick of food.
She looks at you.
I’m sorry, you immediately apologize.
Are you angry with me? She asks.
No.
I feel like you’re angry.
You didn’t do anything– you say.
I asked about your friend.
I want you to ask about my friend– I want someone to ask about my friend.
Are you mad that I didn’t ask before?
No–I didn’t ask you to.
Maybe you thought I was supposed to.
You sigh– I don’t know.
Think about that tonight– she says. Think about how you communicate what you want from people.
that you’re thinking about it now like you thought about it then.
That you’ve been thinking about it–
Like you thought about it every day of every hour till you were so tired of it that you shelved him.
I’m bored with you, you screamed one night.
I grieved you all out best friend.
And now you just have to be dead–
You’re crying now–that feeling like you can’t sit gnawing at your side.
Stop this, you think.
You’re crying and you don’t know what to do.
What can you do?
You had 6 years, you think.
You had 6 years.
And the last time you saw him- the last time you felt his hand in yours- it was 9pm at a house party, and you were standing there in the front yard, backing away from him because you needed to finish your run.
You see his face, remember his eyes. The way they catch yours when you weren’t looking for them. When you can’t look up.
“Linds,” he says, reaching out for your shoulder. “Just stay.”
“I’ll be back,” you laugh – your windshorts hitting your leg with the breeze. “I’ll run home and change and I’ll come back.”
You turn to go down the hill then– back to the sidewalk, your tennis shoes reflecting off the street lights.
“You’ll come back when you’re done?” He asks– yelling down the hill with a red cup in his hand– his shorts hanging at his knee.
Maybe, you wave, smiling. I’ll call Riley.
But you are gone before he answers–running.
Running because you ate 3 bowls of Special K Fruit N’ Yogurt.
Running because you are scared–
That no one will want you.
And when you’re done, you don’t go back.
“Goodnight,” you text, “Have fun with our friends–”
You meet his family in the morning–letter in hand.
Slip it into his backpack as you hug him goodbye.
I love you, you whisper– pulling him close.
Love you too, he says– Because he doesn’t know how to be mad.
Call me when you’re settled– Your friend pats him on the back, gives his mother a nod. Thanks for coming, glad ya’ll stopped on your way.
And you agree–though you can feel his eyes when you say it.
See you soon, you wave as they pull out of the parking lot– your best friend in the middle seat– his backpack with your letter.
You’ll see him soon–you know–you’ll make it up later.
And then you– my best friend– you carried me to bed when I fell asleep on the couch.
Can’t help you there, she says- somewhat amused. Do you mind?
You shake your head.
She sits down.
Lilly told me you were having some problems at dinner.
Kenzie’s hiding her food again.
You don’t know why you tell her– but you do.
Maybe it makes you feel better.
I know, Hillary says. All the staff knows–
And you don’t stop her?
Can lead a horse to water, she says. Can’t make them drink it.
You sigh.
So tell me what you’re blubbering about, Hall?
I don’t even know– you say, almost embarrassed.
That’s alright.
Is it?
She nods. Yeah– you do that here. Everyone does.
My best friend’s dead, you say–
Immediately trying to take it back.
I mean– he died a long time ago.
I don’t know why I just said that.
She let’s you sit with it.
So why are you thinking about it?
You sigh.
I don’t know, can’t it just hurt? You ask, snot running down to your mouth. Can’t it ever just hurt for no reason.
Yeah, she says– in her monotone voice. It’s supposed to sometimes.
You agree.
She knocks your knee with hers. So what are you gonna do?
I dunno– binge drink water? You joke. But it’s weak, and Hillary shakes her head.
Well– the fridge is locked but you can take a stab at it. I hear there might be some almonds in the couch.
You smile–
Are you allowed to say that to patients?
No. I’ll probably get fired.
You snort. I don’t know how to do this, Hill.
I know.
Is this normal? you wonder. Is this really normal– sitting in the grass crying.
She shrugs. I think it’s pretty normal– people are just scared.
Is it weird that I remember everything? you ask. It feels weird sometimes-
And it feels worse that I don’t think I can remember what was real and what I made up.
She agrees. Yeah, I did that too when my dad died.
Do you think about him?
Every day.
Do you ever want to talk about him then? You ask. Do you ever just want someone to know he existed?
Sometimes, she says.
I feel like I can’t help it– I feel like all I want to do is talk about him– you pause. Why do we have to pretend to forget someone when they die?
You don’t, she says.
Yeah, you persist. But it’s like you get a one-year benchmark and then you’re fucked up for still talking about it.
You’re not as fucked up as you think you are.
You look at her.
Okay, she smiles. Well you are a little.
You snort.
But you’re not just ’cause your friend died.
Is it supposed to still hurt like this?
Sometimes, she says. But you’re allowed to.
And if I don’t want to?
She shrugs, Well what were you doing before?
I dunno, you pause. Binge eating sugar cookies from the deli.
Nice.
You nod. They were some good cookies–
She smiles. Sit with it, Hall. Deal with it. Find something higher than you– that’s my advice.
Oh– the religion talk, you say.
Not necessarily, she pauses. But you’ve got a big life. You’ll get out of here- you’ll be alright.
You think?
I know, she nods. Been doing this a long time- I know when I’ll see someone again.
You might though, you admit. Cause I dunno what the hell I’m gonna do after this.
Grow up, she says. Get a job– Write a book.
You roll your eyes. We’ll see.
You’ll figure out how to like yourself- she says. And when you do, you’ll let yourself hurt, and you won’t feel bad.
You gonna friend me on Facebook to check in?
She shakes her head. No, cause then I’ll really get fired.
You smile-
You thank her for sitting with you.
This grass is poking my ass, you say.
She nods. You got a couple girls worried in there.
Are they playing Bananagrams?
Making friendship bracelets.
You smile. Jesus, this really is summer camp.
In a way.
Summer camp for the unstable–
She asks if you’re okay.
And you say you don’t know– but that you’re sitting with it and you’ll see.
So you walk inside.
You open the door– grass sticking to your black sweatpants.
Brush your butt off, she says– before you go in.
You catch yourself in the door’s reflection.
Catch your thighs when you turn.
I miss you– you think– And I’ll miss you always, best friend.
And what if it is- you wonder- that you can feel many things?
That your heart can ache-
And still be happy?
Is there such a thing? You’re not sure.
The truth is that you don’t know.
And you’re not sure of anything–
But right now- tonight–
You’re walking into the community room– and you’re missing your friend.
Olivia greets you at the door “Hello love,” she says in her fake British accent.
You smile–
You alright, now? She continues–her eyes following you.
Yeah, you say. Being a baby.
I know– she says. We’re playing bananagrams if you wanna come.
You grin– I thought you were making friendship bracelets.
We were– She pauses– and then Lilly told us you were coming back and we knew you’d rather play Bananagrams.
You agree, I hate doing art.
We know– she says.
So you follow her to the floor–
Where six girls– with their leopard print pajamas and water bottles and collarbones– lie flat on their stomachs, game tiles spread out in front of them.
“Bananagrams,” you say to the group. “Let’s do it bitches.”
And you squat down– your elbows resting on a pillow on the ground.
Jacy smiles at you–
And tonight you think it’s okay to feel happy and hurt.