I hate this diary. I hate it. I hate every fucking thing about it.
I hate this diary because it’s a song for my friend. A song I have to write because she has died. I have to write it because those left when someone goes on must speak for the one who has passed, in their honor. We must sing so their song does not fall silent. So are we bound.
But I hate it. Not because I want to change my friend’s fate — I do, but that’s over my pay grade. Not because I want to drag her back, because she was suffering, and I would never in a million years want her to suffer if it was evitable. No; I hate it because writing it somehow makes her passing more real. And I’m selfish enough to wish it weren’t. Today one of my heroes died.
I wish I could tell you more about Tricia. I never knew her well. I’m not even actually a member of the Pootie Peeps diary group. I just happened on one of the diaries one day a few years back, and sought them out thereafter. No one ever asked me to join the group, and I never bothered anyone asking about it. There didn’t seem to be a need. The Peeps are the furthest thing in the world from an exclusive clique; if there’s one thing you can count on about pretty much anyone in the diaries, it’s that they’ll welcome those of like mind with an open heart and open arms. Certainly Tricia fit that description.
What do you say that hasn’t been said about someone who several hundred (if not more) people have spent the last ten years or so thanking for being so awesome? Other than that she deserved it all, and more?
A little while ago — it might have been this year, might have been last — the subject of troubled childhoods came up somehow. Tricia mentioned she’d had a bit of a fun one and posted a link to her diary about it from… might have been 2006? 07? A while back.
It rocked me. Hard. I never thought much about my own childhood; I thought it sucked, but for many years I kind of thought that was just… childhood. It just sucks. Having spent years in therapy myself, I guess everyone I did talk to about it was either walking under the weight of something similar or trying to help others with it. But very few people I interacted with had gone through anything like what Tricia did. Since we were all young, nobody talked openly of such things (perhaps they did in one-on-one settings; I hope so). Tricia’s account was starkly simple, freighted with little emotion and absolutely no “woe is me” moaning. Just basically: This happened, and it really sucked at the time, but... you know, I lived.
I remember saying, Holy shit.
It takes a ton, a metric shit-ton, of courage and determination to keep walking when you carry stuff like that on your back. My own load is much lighter, and it almost broke me more than once in my youth and young adulthood. I have no idea what kind of person Trish is in everyday life; we never met in person (and I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting that). But I can say (and know it’s true) that she had a spine made out of pure blue steel, and a heart of silver light. I know those things because she did keep walking, and because in her last few years on this little blue marble, she spent quite a bit of time and effort making other people happy for no reason other than that she wanted to and could. Just that alone — just being kind — is reason enough to celebrate a person. Heaven knows true kindness is rare enough. Being kind when you had to live through a personal hell — that’s something else. Something awesome and amazing and heroic.
That’s Tricia Wyse.
We are all lucky to have known her and shared her song for a while. The world is a sadder, shabbier place for her passing. Still, she left it a better place than she found it; that’s for damn sure. I’m pretty sure I speak for us all when I say, Thanks Trish. We’ll all miss you.
I’ll say another thing. If there is a heaven, I don’t think it’s made by knowledge or wisdom; by shiny machines or sayings for the ages. If there is a heaven, it exists in the space between people; in the door that opens to let you in from a storm, in the arms that hold you while you weep. It exists in the hand that helps you up from a fall or shields you from harm. It lives in the uncounted millions of quiet, unselfish kindnesses done each day for no other reason than that they’re the right thing to do. It lives in a child’s smile, a mother’s caress, a friend’s laugh; and in a cat’s bumbling purr or a dog’s happy, panting-laughing breath as they lean on your legs and smile. A horse lipping your hand as they greet you, a bird’s gentle talons as they grasp your hand — telling you they could do damage, but don’t because you’re Flock.
Heaven is the good we do others, and Tricia did much for many. Those who carry on her legacy, passing on those glad tidings — thanks in advance.
And if there is a heaven, and one day we all dance on air, I know who’ll be waiting to meet us when we see it for the first time. A pagan friend once told me that in her religion, death isn’t a sad thing; it’s a graduation, a distinction, something to be celebrated. Your friend who has passed, well, they passed. Life is a test, and they made it. If that is true, I’m sure it applies to Trish.
Thank you, thank you, thank you Tricia. Can’t say it enough.
I didn’t have an outline or essay plan writing this; I’ve been crying on and off since ZenTrainer called this afternoon and told me about it. I just sat down and let this bleed out. So I don’t have an uplifting ending in mind. In life, like most worthwhile things, if you look deep enough you find there are no real beginnings, there are no real ends; things just go into one another and continue on. And like the best stories, the best songs never really end. New verses get made up, and new voices carry on the refrain as the elder ones fall silent, but that light keeps shining through. So it is with us, I believe and hope. We have a good example to follow.
We love you Tricia, and we won’t forget.
(For some reason this is the song that came to mind, and no diary honoring Tricia Wyse would be complete without a song.)