In the words of great raconteur, Justin Bieber, “We’re at a party we don’t wanna be at.”
You’re welcome. I just quoted Justin Fucking Bieber at your memorial. I can see you laughing, but somehow I still feel bad.
We’re all here for you. We want to be here for you, but we wanted to do it with you. Not after you. You’re a continual force, there is no after you. you perpetual wondrous bitch.
I think that was worse than Bieber.
I knew I had to say something, so I’m going to fumble through this. I couldn’t be there in person because I jumped on an opportunity to stay in the house of the person reading these words (Hi, Deanna, thank you for this), and it’s in another country. You’d like it here. We have more rights, and there are TNR programs in England. Plus, your fashionable ass would fit right in. Goddamnit, I am swearing a lot. If I were there, I’d also be sweating. Profusely. Visibly. So. There’s a plus.
You told me I had to tell people about the real you. The filthy, quick witted, dark humored woman. You said, “everyone else will be all ‘blehh blehhhhh, Lindsey saved animals and inspired others, blehhhh,’ and I will need you to be like THIS is Lindsey.” (that is an actual quote, right down to the “bleh”s) Also, that quote was in the middle of a text conversation about some vaginal wipes called, “BOX wipes” and I don’t know that I should say that now, because your family does not need to hear the word “vaginal” at their daughter’s service and…it’s too late. I did it and we’re all thinking it now. Great. This is why you had a wedding flash mob, right? So no one would make this mess in your public space? Too late. I can hear you cackling, but that doesn’t save me now.
There’s nothing to save any of us now, though, is there? We have to keep reeling. We have to keep hurting. We have to keep doing double takes at your pictures because it just isn’t right that you aren’t here anymore to make new ones. Our hearts refuse it. Our minds reject it. It can’t be. For five months now. It can’t. It is. I can’t.
You called me in the middle of the night to ask me to check on the people you love. You had specific asks, because you knew them so well, you were searching the friendship apothecaries of your mind to remedy their pain. Theirs. Not yours. Never yours. When we talked about your pain, you were resolved. It would always be there. And how could you continue? I asked about the people you cared for, and how you could love them and leave them at once. You asked how on earth it could be just for you to suffer the way you did, even if it was to spare them. I had no answer for you. And I’ll regret that forever.
You swooped in to protect me from social media trolls - even though I didn’t ask - and called me in to beat on some with you. You yelled at me if I took too long to verbally spar with some troglodyte in the comments. I wish I would have vanquished the monsters inside you. I’m continually kicking my own in the nuts, so I missed my chance.
Suffering wasn’t new to you, and you regularly lit yourself on fire to keep others warm. Waiting in your car for hours to trap a cat. Standing outside, having insults (and sometimes food!) hurled at you by families as you protested the circus. And most of all, continually hearing the voices in your soul that told you you didn’t belong here. You thought any bad thing happening to you was inevitable. What I took for false modesty in the face of such blaring success, wealth, beauty, and talent was the tiniest leak of the screaming inside you. You were keenly aware of all of your privileges. But you also thought you were a terrible person who didn’t deserve any of them. There was no way to stop the constant ticker of horrible thoughts. You were trying.
I am not going to paint you as someone who lost a battle. Fuck that in the eyes. You were beaten every day by your own damned chemistry, and there was no battle. There was you, spitefully continuing to exist and shine and piss people off - even and especially those closest to you - while you bore the weight of existence on your shoulders. It’s weird how good your posture was.
I hate…I HATE that you aren’t here. I hate that we couldn’t catch you. I feel like we could have if we all formed a net together. If you knew how many of us carried that same weight and wanted you to live…but you did know. Yours was just too much. We each tried to hold you, but you outplanned and outsmarted every one of us. Because of course you did. The hurt we all carry is a combination of anger and regret, and just selfishly missing the Lindsey in our lives no one can replace. I haven’t hugged you in years, and I’d give anything for a late night call. But those things aren’t coming. So we will lean on each other, which is what you wanted all along. Because you got what you thought you wanted - always - except peace. I have no way of knowing if you have that now. I hope you do, even if we don’t. I’ll light myself up to keep that idea warm. For you. For you, I’ll be obnoxiously hot and funny in public (what a burden) and swear up a fucking storm in private, though it won’t stop the storm in my heart. I’ll live a bit more like you and a lot more like me, since I was lucky enough to be someone you loved. All of us can do that to honor you - to be the people you so fiercely loved, but carry some of you with us. And probably swear more and listen to more old school hip hop, you fucking wonderful weirdo.
Do you think everyone forgot about the vaginal thing yet? Good. I thought so, too.
I love you. I don’t want to say I miss you because of what that means. But goddamn, everyone here does. You’d be so pissed and pleased.
This is where I tell everyone to reach out. To take care of each other. That magic didn’t work on Lindsey, no matter how hard she tried. So I’m going to say this: someone will pick up your late night call. Someone will make one to you. It won’t solve everything. But it’ll soothe in the moment. Moments and each other are all we’ve got, and they’re worth sticking around for - so I’m going to hope it’s enough for everyone here. Stick around and be entirely, unashamedly you. In your grief. In your anger. In your wildly inappropriate ways. Celebrate it when you see it. I love you as you are. So did Lindsey.
