My brother in arms killed himself and all he left behind was everything
It's 6am and I'm writing about line cooking again because I don't know how to talk about the rest of it. I have a new job in a high stress kitchen again. I'm in high volume fine dining again. It's so busy and so exhausting that I almost threw up on my walk to the train a few days ago. It's so busy I haven't been able to think about it all for the past 5 days.
I'm afraid of the weekend. I'm afraid of who I am and what I feel when I'm not at work. I'm afraid of this feeling. I'm afraid that I can't outrun this feeling that I'm just going to keep losing my friends. I keep thinking, "he could have called any of us." any of us would have picked up. I know we don't talk as much anymore, but everyone picked up the phone when I called to tell them. It had been years for a few of them. How many has it been? Out of the 60 of us, how many more? I grieve everyone at the same time. I think the number is at least 7 now, that we know of. 7 futures we'll never see.
I can't find the words. I don't want words. I want him to have called me.
I'm in a new house, with a new job, living with new people, and yet everything is still the same. My friends are still killing themselves. I search for meaning and the only place I can find it is on the line. I search for myself and I find him in front of a ticket machine. I met God and he looks like the burns on my arms and the cuts on my knuckles. I abuse my body to feed my soul.
This is cringe, this is so cringe. I miss him and I can't even write about him properly. The only thing I can do, the only thing I care about doing, is cooking. Why would I tell you about him? Why should you care? My brother in arms killed himself and all he left behind was everything. I don't blame him. None of us do. None of us are okay. Every one of us is plagued by the nightmares, the fear, hiding behind locked doors and knowing that in order to lock something out you have to lock yourself in.