Dear Tony,
Well. Maybe I can address you that way. It's been one year since you've gone. Four days from today. The resurgence of your name in print has made it familiar again. But there's something about you no longer occupying physical space that allows for you to become more of a sentiment, an idea, one no longer concerned with formalities.
People are talking about you again. And, because of your friends, it has nothing to do with the way you left us, but the way you lived.
Uncertainty abounds. We've all but sold our house, and that is wonderful, but it leaves me with a lot of time on my hands that I never know how to fill because 90% of the time I am physically unable to relax. Reading feels impossible. Writing even harder. I feel like my synapses are firing so fast I find myself wobbling from one project to the next, desperate to expel energy but never fully succeeding.
What's next? What's the next project? If I'm not fully immersed in something, am I even really here? How will I ground myself?
We were considering any number of "fixer uppers" for our next home; rambling, forgotten farmhouses I was desperate to resuscitate. The most recent of which needed a new roof, new electric, new plumbing, new septic, new basement, to be reverted to a one family from two, insulation, and jesus lord knows what else. I was all ready to go until I slammed 350mph into a towering cinderblock wall of exhaustion. Around that time, I found a little house in Hudson. It is near friends, fully renovated, move-in ready, and I confused the ever living hell out of my husband by proclaiming that I was done. Search over. Here we go. No seclusion, no land, no privacy. Essentially the opposite of what we've been looking for.
I wonder sometimes if you felt this way. Always pushing further and further from normalcy - desperate to find more land to conquer. More projects, more people, more conversations, more hearts to heal. We cannot keep this up. You, me, the collective we. At what point does life become living? At what point does the Bataan Death March towards greatness give way to life?
Maybe it's now. Maybe now when I'm seriously considering more meds to manage my mental illnesses. When I feel as though my pain and anxiety have taken up permanent residence in my heart. It's wild to feel as though some aspects are mostly managed (depression), while others took the reins and ran the fuck away with the horse.
Eric Ripert and Jose Andres have started a campaign - a global toast to you on June 25th, your birthday, so that we may celebrate your life rather than the anniversary of your death on June 8th.
You chose to leave us. Was it because of a girl? Or was it the Push.
I will celebrate you. I celebrate you.
But let us not forget that we need to be talking about mental health and suicide all the time. ALL THE TIME. We need to reach to the darkest corners and shine the light on those who suffer, because this cannot continue, and I know better than most that those who really need help are the best at hiding it. Hiding from everyone. Professional chameleon pros who are always too busy to hang out. To talk. The funniest, the loudest, those filled with life.
You're not alone. I'm not alone.
But I know I need to start talking. And maybe stop with the projects for now. Maybe it's like driving a car for hours and hours and hours then arriving at your destination, and firm ground, still feeling like you're being propelled forward. Maybe if your feet stay planted on solid ground for long enough, they will learn how to stay.
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