Prelude
March 18, 2017 — Madison, WI
I had no business being in that venue, a half mile away from the house where I found Jake dead six months before. I knew that. I ignored that.
As I drove that once familiar path from Milwaukee to Madison, the manic “I have to do something” energy pulsed through my veins. When paired with nicotine and stale coffee, I could feel the muscles in my body twitch, electric, uncontrolled. Even though I knew going to this concert wouldn’t change anything, I felt I had to do something for him. No, that I needed to. I convinced myself this was it.
Or at least, that this would be a step in the right direction. A step further. At least a step away from my living room and a box of wine, alone, as I had been doing for the past six months. A step closer to closure, even if it was forced.
I had a plan. I would buy two tickets — one for me, and one for the memory of him. I would give his ticket away, in his memory. I would not say why or who it had been for — I would lie if asked. I would drink a gin and tonic, then continue the night with PBR tall boys, as he used to do. Because All Them Witches had been one of the last bands we saw in Milwaukee, one we had planned on seeing again, I felt this would finally, maybe, give me the closure I had been so desperately looking for.
And even as I planned this, I knew I was running in circles around his memory instead of progressing forward. I knew in the pit of my gut that this would get me nowhere. At this point, I didn’t know what else to do or where else to go.
Moving in circles is better than getting stuck in place, I justified. At least I’m going somewhere.
But no matter how many times I had played this moment in my head, I still wasn’t ready.
The memories came back to me as soon as I entered the venue but I tried to block them out. I thought of other things. I thought of the weather outside, gloomy. I actively focused on the people I passed, my immediate surroundings. I greeted my friend, who was standing in the back, before going to the bar. I ordered a gin and tonic. I went to the front, by the stage, by the speakers, where it’s acceptable to be alone simply because conversation is nearly impossible. I focused on nothing but the static coming from the speakers as the band set up.
And for a moment I wondered where Jake was until I realized he wasn’t there. My gut clenched, calmed only by another sip of gin. This thought still sticks with me, no matter how much time has passed. The gut punch “Where’s Jake?”
I tried to stop thinking about it but at that point it had infected my thoughts.
Focus on something else, I tried to tell myself. Or focus on nothing.
As they started to play, I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn’t there, that I was at home. Safe. Holed up. I absently swayed to the beat blasting out of the speakers right by my ear, but other than that I disconnected from the room completely. In my mind I was floating above the crowd, watching.
I drifted to another concert Jake and I had seen here before — Movits!. I remembered we had gotten into an argument, only five feet away. I tried to black out the negative thoughts but at this moment I can’t escape them. I tried to drink them away but this only made his face clearer in my mind. This memory, his voice, warped into something I knew it wasn’t. I tried to think of anything else, anything to distract me from this.
He isn’t here to defend himself, I thought. This isn’t fair, I thought.
Still, I could see his eyes in the back of my mind, piercing. I could hear his voice, cutting. To me, he was still here. This memory cut open a wound I thought had healed, then poured vinegar on it. All of the healing I thought I had done disintegrated. In my mind, I regressed to the person I was the moment I found him, screaming nonsense from behind a chain-locked door at his dead body, helpless, alone. I tried to think of anything else, anything, but I felt as if I was falling down a set of stairs — each memory hitting me in the back of the head as I fell further down to where I was before.
Then the singer sang something I understood. “Am I going down? Am I going up? Am I going nowhere?” And as all things said at just the right moment this line shielded me from another stab of painful memories. A connection that acted as a shield, or at least a distraction. As I felt it, someone said it. There was a pause just long enough for me to push back my emotions and connect before he continued.
“I don’t wanna wait too long, while I’m buried in the ground.”
Even though I didn’t know the words, I felt my thoughts drum to the beat of the music — completely in sync.
And at this point I fully admit the alcohol was going to my brain, and at this point I fully acknowledge I was looking for somewhere to run. At this point I was a cornered animal escaping a ghost that had haunted me for the past six months– something that could and would kill me if I stayed here. If I stayed static.
When the mind is twisted, as mine was, it can convince you of anything.
I could not stay here. I could not stay in this city. I could not stay in this state. Unless I wanted to be haunted by this sorrow, I knew I had to leave.
The only thing I didn’t know was where to go.