9/27

The other day, I got a random message from a number I somehow immediately recognized. It was like running into a coworker while you’re on vacation in another country. Someone familiar, but of so out of context that it becomes a weird, “wait, that can’t be…can it?”

It was my ex. THE ex. The One That Shall Not Be Named. By 35 we all have one of these exes. It doesn’t matter why we broke up, or all of the things I had to unlearn after that relationship, or that I think I may be the reason Venmo lets you erase contacts (because why was it still suggesting I pay someone I had purposefully erased from every other aspect of my life!?), or that one of the (very small, but still) reasons I moved across the country was to get away from any chance of running into him ever again. 

I had my phone on DND, and then when I turned it off, “ping” and there it was. A nice, generic message of condolence, from a number that my traitor brain had involuntarily remembered. He did know my dad quite well, and I assume (hope) he also knows how much my dad despised him, so I surmise that it was some tiny piece of altruism that must exist in the complicated depths of that man, that motivated him to reach out. But why?

It’s also so, so, like him to be the person who reaches out, months later, to someone they haven’t spoken to (nor wants to speak to), to give some condolence. As if I want to hear condolences no matter from whom they come. So obtuse to think I would want to hear from him, even if it was an attempt to be kind.

Because what the fuck am I supposed to say back? 

I did, in fact, say nothing. The thought of there being a text chain between us was just too much. I tried so hard not to answer every text right after he died. I tried so hard not to be the polite midwestern people pleaser and just let myself grieve. It’s so hard though, and it’s especially hard when the person, at one time, did know him. 

My mom sent thank you cards to almost everyone who sent us anything, and almost all of the people (150+) who came to his funeral. That’s the DNA I’m working with! So not answering some of the texts was hard, but I forced myself to do it. I didn’t realize how much I was still doing that – forcing myself not to respond when I want to say something about my dad, something about his death. 

Someone else (that I do actually like, and wouldn’t mind talking to) also reached out the other day to say that they had heard, and they were sorry. And even then, I didn’t really know what to say. It’s been long enough now that the “oh thank you, I know, he was great and it hard, blah blah blah” muscle is atrophied. Now I just want to talk about him in context and not have people be weird about it. I want people to know so I don’t have to tell them. I want for no one to have moved on, but for no one to ask me how I’m doing, because it’s still not great. I want for my people to acknowledge it and for everyone else to keep their sympathy shit to themselves.

A few days later and I’m not angry, or sad, or anything else, but it hit me with such surprise that a) we are now so disconnected that he didn’t know for 125 days that my father had passed away (a realization that made my heart sing a little) and b) I still have his number memorized (ugh). 

Anyway, this is all to say: If you find out an old friend, colleague, significant other, etc. is going through a tragedy and you think “huh, we haven’t spoken in years and they would never, ever, want to hear from me in any other context” maybe just, don’t. It’s nice of you to think of them, keep your condolences to yourself. Send out a quick little silent prayer or vibe or whatever you want to them. And just keep your mouth, or your fingers, quiet.