How's Your Halo?

“Are you there? … Are you watching me?”

-

A voice in my head. “You would quote Kelly right now…”

How could I not?

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Last night, I asked you to help me sleep. You know I’ve been so exhausted. And I slept through the night. I didn’t wake up once. This morning I felt okay; rested. The sun was shining on my face. Was that you?

Can you hear me?

“You’re quoting Kelly again!”

I can’t help it!

A raspy laugh. “Haha, no, I loves it.”

I loves you. I miss you.

…What do I do? Tell me what to do.

“You know what to do. You know what I’m going to say.”

I can’t yet. I’m not ready.

“You’ll never be ready.”

I can’t. I can’t write this into existence yet. That makes it real.

“Mia,” (Never Francesca, always Mia) “Nothing is ever real.”

I know.

“Write. You better fucking write. It’s what we do. It’s our thing. You have to. And you better do me justice or girl, I swear I will haunt you like that ghost that wouldn’t leave Cordelia alone in the first season of Angel…”

OKAY. Okay.

“Atta girl. Love you, Mia.”

The only way out is through.

-

Your playlist is on. I’m cycling through it for about the seventh time. You know the one. From one of the million mix CDs we’d made each other. I’d been on a William Blake kick and thought it would be cool for us to make two CDs: Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience. You loved the idea, my fellow hopeless nostalgic.

I’m taken back to high school. I’m getting into your bright orange Mazda with the windows rolled down. The car floor is a graveyard of empty water bottles that we would always clean out together. Spring cleaning. You laugh. The seventh Harry Potter book sits in the back window pane, crumpled from prior saturation (probably a water bottle that wasn’t so empty.) We’re heading to the Cheesecake Factory (as usual) because you’re craving Pasta DaVinci (as usual.) What’ll it be? What whiny girl group are we listening to today? Ashlee Simpson? The Veronicas? Vedera? Meg & Dia? Our girl Demi? Kelly Clarkson?—although KC is by no means whiny.

-

The track changes on your playlist. “I never promised you a ray of light…” Halo. By Bethany Joy Lenz. Deep breath.

“You can do this, Mia.”

-

We lost your father while you were in Disney World. You were ripped out of the happiest place on earth and plummeted into the saddest moment of your life thus far. I don’t know how to help you or what to do. I know you like my oatmeal raisin cookies, so I make a batch of them and bring them to your dad’s service. I give them to you and you immediately start eating them, right in the middle of the wake. I look down and realize you’re not wearing any shoes. You took them off because they weren’t comfortable. Clutching your cookies in a suit and socked feet, I see a sense of childlike peace momentarily sweep over you. You wipe the crumbs from your mouth and smile at me.

It’s the school play, A Chorus Line. I have my first solo onstage ever as Diana Morales. I’m shaking with nerves. I belt out "Nothing" for our first audience, and as I’m walking back to take my rightful place next to you on the line, you, my Paul, put a discrete hand on my shoulder and give it a squeeze. You give me this look that you later told me said: “um, where did THAT powerhouse of a voice come from?” The thought of impressing you always made me feel such an intense sense of pride. Later on, after you deliver your mesmerizing monologue, you start to cry. We both know that it’s not a fully-scripted sob. As everyone else starts to join you on stage, I rush to you, Diana to Paul, and give you a tight hug, mouthing “you alright?” You nod, wipe your eyes, and thank me later for it. I knew how much I loved you early on in our relationship, but that night, it was official—I’d met my soulmate.

The rest of high school is filled with amazing memories. An unforgettable trip to the Bahamas, countless concerts, a scavenger hunt for the ages. I’ll never forget the two of us storming into my childhood bedroom and raiding my closet for the best challenge—"You must cross-dress at an SI train station." I throw on your hat and your sweatpants and find some clothes I think will fit you. Unbeknownst to us, this would be the first of many times this scenario pans out. We change and head on our way. “Why are girls’ clothes so stylish but so uncomfortable?! Even though I honestly kind of like it.” Aequorea Victoria had not yet been named, but she was born.

It’s the night before you’re leaving for college. I have 13 friends piled into my basement, playing Mafia until the sun comes up. We each take turns tearfully hugging you goodbye. Everything is about to change. We’ll have the holidays, but holidays are not every day. Holidays are not passing conversations exchanged in the high school hallways, or tanning together in backyards, or getting drunk at toga parties. Holidays are not the same. Nevertheless, we wipe our eyes and watch the orange Mazda turn a corner, driving on to its next home.

I get accepted to Muhlenberg College. After visiting you over weekends, old friends meeting new friends, there is no other college I want to attend. We’re reunited. You help me study, we listen to new whiny girl groups, I nap in your bed, the orange Mazda is back in the picture. All is as it should be.

It’s my sophomore year at Muhlenberg, and I quite literally want to die. The depression hits me full force, passing through me like a tidal wave each time, leaving me gasping for air. I’m drowning. You drive me everywhere and anywhere. You make sure I’m eating, even if that means nothing other than splitting an entire loaf of cinnamon raisin bread with you (True story. We would sit and just eat Java Joe’s bread together). We're in your car, driving back to campus, (probably from Starbucks) and then you start BLASTING Gaga's "Just Dance" in the car, screaming "JUST DANCE! It WILL be okay! I will slap anyone I have to for you!" I start laughing harder than I have in a really long time.... then we split a loaf of the aforementioned bread. On other days, you’d let me sob into your chest. We talk about things and thoughts that we’re admittedly too embarrassed to share with others. We become partners, confidantes, lifelines, a Rose and Jack you-jump-I-jump sort of team. We hold hands and fall asleep together.

You tell me you don’t feel like Chris is your name, but you don’t know why or what that means yet. I change your name in my phone to “Gorgeous” and it’s remained as such for ten years. You start examining queerness and drag performance. We share shoes and borrow clothes. I go on vacation and bring you back a ring that looks like a puzzle piece that you never once took off. I see that ring in every photo of you that’s taken. A piece of me with you everywhere. I help you with your makeup. Little did I know, you would one day be way better at cosmetics than anyone I know.

You visit me at work and present your first, completed, brilliant dissertation. I’m so happy for you, but I know this marks the beginning of the end. One month later and I’m at your graduation. I have to say goodbye again. This is the first time our paths are going to diverge in 12 years. We’ve attended every school together and have always shared a zip code. What happens now? You make me promise to help continue the work you’ve started. Have the tough conversations. Examine queerness. Examine feminism. Examine diversity, or lack thereof. Call authoritative power into question. Learn to love yourself. I’ll try, but it won’t be the same without you.

It’s my spring semester of my senior year. Even though we skype each other every week, I take a trip out to visit you at Berkeley. I stay with you in your apartment that hasn’t been fully moved into yet. We decorate bit. You use my extra set of arms to lug heavy groceries all the way back from the store—over a mile, and I still haven’t entirely forgiven for that, doll. We paint our nails and watch movies, and when you go to the lab, I work on the play I’m planning on putting up as a Blackbox: 4.48 Psychosis. It’s about mental health and suicide. I run concepts and plans and musical pieces by you. None of it makes any sense at this point, although I can still hear you chuckling, “You would sort out all of your own issues this way.”

The following year I have another pitfall. Somehow, this one is much worse, despite being medicated. I’m flying into San Francisco after a long trip and you meet me at the airport for lunch. I remember thinking, I will never have another friend that would drive all the way to the airport to meet me for shitty airport lunch and save my sanity. But you did. You saved me that day. You saved me on so many days.

A few months later, I’m in San Francisco again for a work conference. We meet at the Cheesecake Factory for Pasta DaVinci and then you spend the night with me at my hotel. We travel to Oakland together the next day, and I’m introduced to your housemates and your fabulous wig collection. I help get you ready for your drag performance later that night. Baby, there was nothing like watching you live. I watched you glitter in black and gold, while Pink’s voice came out of your mouth—“…nitty, gritty, dirty little freaks! So come on and come on and…” Afterwards, you came up to me and asked what I thought. I said, “You would sort out all of your own issues this way.” You smirk. “Haha, look at us.”

When I first meet AV, she’s in my NYC apartment trying on my clothes. She settles on a red bra. “Can I keep this?” It’s yours. I barter the bra for a pair of studded heels that were too big for you. Shortly after, we record every song for your album in my narrow hallway. The space is cramped but the acoustics are great. I wish more than anything I still had that great BTS footage of us belting your original lyrics to T Swift’s 1989 tracks.

Every time I see you thereafter, it’s at home. Our home. When you come back to the east coast to visit and I pick you up and drive you around in my white Toyota Venza. The orange Mazda has been gone for years. In August, we drove to our grammar school and sat in the car across the street. We each shared a secret we had never told anyone. We basked in how your drag persona was essentially morphing into my actual 17-year-old being. You were becoming Francesca Mia. We were always kindred spirits. You asked me how I got through college and the years that followed. You asked me about my experience with depression, therapy, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, darkness in general. I told you that it never really goes away. It’s always there. The monster lives under the bed, I just don’t go looking for it. I promise you it will be okay. I’m here for you. We’ll figure this out. You jump, I jump, right?

The month of November is filled with tearful phone calls and sad poetry. We write back and forth to each other. I try to console you as best I can from 5,000 miles away. I never liked to hear you cry. You and I, we never cry, but our breakdowns are swift and severe. We feel too much. We think too much. We understand too little. The only thing I know is that I have you and you have me.

The last time I saw you was right before New Years Eve. I pick you up and we drive to our high school. We sit in my car on the L. It’s after midnight. You’re talking fast and fervently and I’m trying to keep up. You're picking at your fingertips and shifting in your seat beside me. You’re catching me up on your struggles and your revelatory introspective and your experience on medication and in therapy and with suicidal thoughts and depression and regret and guilt and the empty meaninglessness of time and I stop you. And you calm down. And I tell you everything I’ve ever wanted to tell you about what I think of you. That you’ve been my best friend, my teacher, my savior. You ask me, “What comes next?” And I tell you your job is to educate. It’s what you’ve always done. It’s what you're best at.

“True. I hadn’t thought of that. I could do that.” So do it, doll.

-

I need to take a pause here. “Just breathe, Mia. You’re almost finished.”

-

Last Sunday, you sent me a final poem, titled “Lost After/After Lost.” It’s about the afterlife. What comes after. As is all of your work, it’s prophetic and profound. You also send along your to-do list for costuming your next drag performance and some Rupi Kaur quotes you think I’d like. We catch up and you tell me about how much better you’re doing and maybe meds do work and therapy does help and you’re writing again more than ever.

“'Energy’ is still such a good song.” This is the last text you’ll ever send me. I respond over g-chat because I’m at work. We talk about how the love for Keri Hilson is still real.

On Monday morning I get a call. Then a text. Then a FB message. All within two hours. None are from you.

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.

I’m shaking as I call you. Your phone is ringing. Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up, PLEASE PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE!

I hear your voice. It’s your voicemail greeting. I leave you an utterly incoherent message. I text. I FB message.

Darkness.

The monster creeps out from under the bed. It stares me sharply in the eye. It smiles a fanged, toothy smile.

Some hours pass. I go numb. I make some calls. I answer some calls.

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this…” over and over and over and over and each time I’m met with sobs that match my own.

The questions about you become questions about me.

“But Francesca, are YOU okay?”

“How are YOU?”

“Are YOU taking care of yourself?”

“I’m worried about YOU.”

But this isn’t about me.

I’m okay. I’m as okay as I can be…

My words have become as monotonous as an out of office message and I’m flying on autopilot.

There is love and support and comfort and warmth, but also sadness and anger and devastation and betrayal and I am freezing all the time but I keep sweating and I am sweating so much. I have saturated three shirts in the last three hours like a prepubescent teenager or like that time in high school when I was so nervous about a chemistry exam that I sweat through my lavender shirt and you literally gave me the denim jacket off of your back and said it would be good luck and during the exam it smelt like you and I can’t, I can’t, I CAN’T. I CAN’T DO THIS.

WHY.

WHY DID YOU LEAVE US.

WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME.

YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULDN’T AND YOU DID.

HOW.

HOW COULD YOU.

I DON’T WANT TO BE ANGRY WITH YOU BUT I AM ANGRY WITH YOU AND I DON’T WANT TO CHANNEL YOUR SADNESS BECAUSE IT WILL CONSUME ME BUT YOU AREN’T HERE TO ANSWER ANY OF MY QUESTIONS AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I don’t know what to do. I need your help. Please. Please help me.

“Calm down, Mia.”

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“Uh, you won’t, cause you haven’t eaten anything all day. Don’t go all Emo Death-Star on me. Eat a damn granola bar.”

I just miss you so much. We all do. It hurts so much.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

You are so loved. By everyone. Do you have any idea how many lives you’ve touched? Even those who didn’t know you, know you are extraordinary. Do you know how many people you’ve inspired across this entire country? Do you know how many existences you’ve shaped, simply by speaking your truth? Those you’ve helped? Those you’ve saved? Do you know?

Where was the misstep? Why am I here and you’re not? You were doing everything you could. What was it? Did I fail you? I know you’d say I didn’t, but did I? What did I miss? What could have been done differently?

I just feel like I’ve been shot in the chest and I am bleeding out so slowly and I’m here, I’m coherent, I can process the world around me but the aching is tearing me apart and I’m still dying. I can’t stop crying. I’m sweating and I’m crying and I’m screaming, but I’m silent.

Do I share this with the world? Or do I keep this between us?

“Use your voice.”

I’m scared.

“Well, that’s how you know sharing is the right choice, then.”

Why are you always right?

...Don’t leave me.

“Never.”

“I’m proud of you. I love you, Mia.”

I’ll forgive you.

“For blue, blue skies?”

I forgive you.

…

Please don’t stop watching over me. Please give me the fierce strength that you embodied every day. People who are strong can also be sad. I don’t want you remembered as weak. Never weak. You are a powerful, preternatural, ethereal, transcendent life force that could never fully vanish from our hearts.

Cris Alvaro. My bold, beautiful best friend.

I will always love you.