February 17, 2004
For Emily (1978-2004)
I still feel awful. And mostly, its just been a feeling like I'm going to be sick, all day. But I never get sick, just continue to feel awful. She's gone.
Emily killed herself last Friday, and I can't even make up my mind how to feel about it. It's so hard to decide between angry, upset, depressed, guilty, exhausted, disappointed, crazy, and just plain red-hot pissed.
Troupe (the improvisation group I was in at MTU) has always been like family for me, and it always will be. I don't think I'm alone in this, I think most of us feel the same way. Even when I meet Troupers that I've never met before, it's like meeting your 2nd cousin Naomi or your great uncle Greg, there's an incredible bond that is just there because of the shared experience. And I know I would do anything to help another Trouper that needed me. Even years now after leaving, I'm still very close to many of the people I was in Troupe with, talking regularly and getting together.
But it had been many months since the last I'd spoken to Emily, and even that was too short. A friend of mine once said that it's never too late to write. That there's always a chance to catch up again, and you should just keep trying. But that's not true, because now it is too late. I won't get a chance to talk to her again, to hug her again, to cast her in a play to talk dirty because I knew she couldn't get embarrassed.
Emily was a lot of fun. She had an energy that was contagious, and to be honest, some days a lack of energy that was contagious too. She was fiercely honest and independent and demanding, and she expected no less from herself than she did from others. She loved music (especially the Beatles) and troupe and being incredibly silly. She was very good at all of them. In Troupe and out, I was glad for the time I had with her. Some days she made me laugh, some days she made me think, and some days she pissed me off. But she has never made me as angry as I feel right now. We were all out here, and we would have loved to hear from her and we wanted to tell her how much she was loved, how much she was wanted. Dammit, Kerby! Pick up the phone, write an email, something!
But she didn't, couldn't maybe. And I didn't either. And I don't know at all if it would have made a difference, but God how I wish I would have tried anyway. Maybe a short note from a friend was what she needed at a vulnerable time. I was shocked this morning, but maybe not surprised. Emily had never been completely stable, always on one edge or another, but always bouncing back. When I wrote my play, "Thunder Only Happens..." she helped me to critique it, and offered her perspective on how suicidal people feel. We talked about it a bit, but not enough. There is a universe of pain, built out of things left unsaid.
So, you, I'm talking to you reader. Listen to me. Say it. Tell the people you love, make them feel it. Maybe it won't make a difference, maybe we can't stop the road from ending, maybe its just words, but say it, say it, say it.
I love you, Em. I wish I'd said it more often. I wish so many things, and they're all useless now. "The only Emperor is the Emperor of ice cream." I love you, Em, and I miss you.
