The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know

Do I know anything about recovery?

Do I know anything about recovery?

A few days after Brendon's funeral, I found myself in the Shufflebottom Center for my first appointment with my counselor. I worked on my Morals, Values, and Ethics homework while I waited outside her office, reading a used copy of Thus Spoke Zarathrustra by my new favorite author, Friedrich Nietzsche. There were a few other students waiting near the Mental Health Services office, but I didn't recognize any of them. After a few minutes went by, a brown-skinned woman in her thirties called me into her office and carefully closed the door.

She told me to have a seat, and I sat down on the armchair waiting in the far corner of her office. The walls were covered with inspirational posters of every variety, to the extent that it was slightly unnerving how much positivity was being exerted onto me from my counselor's office. I tried to relax, but it was nearly impossible, so I took a breath, read the name tag that my counselor was wearing, and said, "Hello Ms. Harley."

"Just call me Tazanna," she said. "You're Ryan Ross, right?" I nodded, and after asking me a handful of preliminary questions, Tazanna asked, "So Ryan, what's bothering you today? Your roommate has already told me a few things, but I'd like to hear it from you."

That was when it all spilled out. I told Tazanna everything that had happened to me over the last month, and despite my long-winded descriptions and philosophical tangents, she listened to me. It was a feeling that I wasn't used to. Usually, nobody listened when I spoke, and even Brendon had done his fair share of smiling and nodding along. Tazanna, however, was different. She took in everything that I had to say, and when all of the fuzz and stuffing had come out of me, she said, "I can see why you're having a hard time moving past your boyfriend's death, Ryan, but there is still hope out there. We'll work together, and you can make it through this."

"Is it my fault?" I asked her.

"Brendon's death?" Tazanna said. "Of course not. You said that he was an alcoholic, right?" I nodded, and she continued, "It was his disease that killed him, not you. Alcoholism is a disease, just like any other, and you can't blame yourself for it."

"I failed Brendon though," I said. "I should have done something sooner. He could have lived if I had called 911 as soon as I saw him."

"You did the best that you could," Tazanna said. "Ryan, it's not your fault. You have a long, meaningful life ahead of life, and you need to take advantage of that. Focusing on Brendon and any mistakes that you might have made won't help you. You can't be afraid to keep on living."

The rest of our forty five minute session was uneventful, but when she told me to come back at the same time the next week, those words stuck with me. Was I afraid to live? Was that what was keeping me from moving on? I considered the idea, and in the end, Tazanna was right. I was terrified of living a life without Brendon to encourage me and keep me company. What kind of life would I be living without my soulmate? Wasn't a lifetime of loneliness something that anyone would be frightened of? I wasn't afraid of dying alone, but the thought of living alone scared the hell out of me.

That night, I went to the Aubergine a little bit earlier than usual. If I was going to face my fear of living alone, I figured that I might as well start early. However, as soon as I stepped through the doors, memories of Brendon began to haunt me. I still couldn't get used to looking around the bar and not seeing his oversized forehead and goofy smile. There was a whole sea of people, but none of them were Brendon Urie. The Aubergine just wasn't the same without him. It had lost every spark of its magic.

All of a sudden, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw Laura. "Hi Ryan," she said. "What's up?"

"I wish Brendon was here," I said.