Snapshots of Grief

New Year's Eve

Notes:

Written December 30, 2017

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It seemed like a good idea, a New Year's Eve party. Anna's eyes had lit up when you suggested having friends over to close out the worst year of your life and ring in 2018. You knew it was because the idea of a party gave her hope that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to get better, to make progress.

Progress in the daily struggle of letting him go.

All you know is that you're starting to be able to fake it a little better. Therapy is okay, but it's not bringing him back, and it seems odd to you that something that is meant to help the whole situation won't be able to do the one thing you really wish it could- bring him back.

I know I'm supposed to understand that you're not coming back, Ches. I'm forty years old. I understand how death works. It just still doesn't seem like it's true. I keep expecting to see you the next time I look up, like this has all been a cruel joke. A practical joke you've taken too far, and you'll realize how much you've worried me, hurt me, destroyed me, and you'll apologize and come home and everything will be okay. I keep thinking it's going to happen that way. It just doesn't seem right that the world still exists, but you're no longer here.

You're not the only one. You see it on Twitter and Instagram everyday, the struggling fans still tagging you in every little thing they post about him. You're spending less and less time going through your accounts and connecting with your fans, mostly because everything you see, everything you read, just reopens the wounds, and you're starting to think that maybe the constant connectivity is part of what is wrong with your head. Once the live album came out and you endured the horrific livestream you subjected yourself to, you knew it was time for another break. What is wrong with people? Why, why would you ask me about bringing a hologram of my best friend on tour? I mean, what the actual fuck was that all about? Going live had been a huge mistake. It was far less easy to pretend you were doing better behind the camera than it had been in pictures, and you felt stupid for thinking you should even try to listen to the album with the fans. You're smarter than that, Shinoda. You knew better. Dumb, stupid mistake. You needed a project to take you away from the hours you were spending watching videos of you and him, and the band. A New Year's Eve party seemed about right.

You ordered balloons and streamers. You let the kids hang up the streamers while you blew up balloons with the helium tank, and you played around with them, wrapping the girls in streamers and tickling Otis, laughing genuinely with your babies, thankful for their bright spirits in your darkness. You helped Anna make all the things on her party food menu, and you brought in cases of champagne for the midnight toast. Just like everything else you've done since July 20th, you've made sure everything was perfectly executed and extravagant. You wanted everyone to have a good time, even if that kind of happiness was still out of reach for you. You didn't want everyone else to know just how not okay you still were. As if they didn't know already.

You were even a good host, at first, greeting your guests and welcoming them into your home, listening to their delighted exclamations at your paper crane artwork over the piano, eventually guiding them to the bar to make drinks and eat, and be social together. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. As the hours ticked 2017 away, the excitement and noise level seemed to rise exponentially. For everyone but you, and the band. Your anchors in the wild sea of emotion that 2017 had become. Thank God for the band. I don't think I could have made it this far without them.

Of course, for the five of you, the evening devolved into this-- you and the guys sitting on the back patio around a fire that was more aesthetic than necessary, quietly drinking beer and trying to keep the conversation off dark subjects. Away from the breathless anticipation of a new start that everyone seemed to be excited about inside your house. The house was full of family, friends, people who had moved on just five months later, and the five of you were together, his empty chair part of your circle, relieved to be away from the need to pretend to celebrate. You all agreed. Despite a promising start, 2017 had been awful. Nobody mentioned 2018 yet. It was impossible to believe he wasn't there to start a new year with you. For the first time in twenty New Year's Eve's, he wasn't going to offer his predictions for the new year. He wasn't going to make jokes, his eyes weren't going to meet yours full of secrets and promises. Ches, I still miss you. Every single day, I miss you.