The Significance of March 25th

I'm feeling particularly anxious and 'on edge' today – for no clearly identifiable reason.

Perhaps it's this relentless issue with my upper back/neck/occiput and a gripping pain that just won't abate. It certainly doesn't help. It's hard to think clearly when every, tiny movement of my skull sends lightning bolts through my brain.

I'm sure it's also this day's significance; something about it – as though the veils are extra thin and the universe wants to remind us of our human vulnerabilities – our inescapable mortality – the fleeting preciousness of life itself.

This day marks both the loss of my dear friend Nicholas Alvarado (beloved dj/producer known as Pumpkin) as well as The Harts; unfathomable tragedies that share the same anniversary – both involving untimely, vehicle-related deaths – precisely 2 years apart.

Both incidents rocked me, throwing me so far off-kilter I'm not quite sure where center is anymore. Of course, my balance was already questionable...my footing, unsteady. I simply wasn't strong enough to absorb the breadth of these losses.

My pre-existing grief, of which I carry a lot, attached itself to these events, imbuing my response with deeper meaning, filling me with unbearable anguish.

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Silent Anchors

In the days' following Nic's accident, I quite literally could not stop crying. On the 10th day, I visited my psychologist and requested a prescription for an anti-depressant called Cymbalta – a decision I'd long-avoided. It wasn't directly related to Nic's death, but that was clearly a catalyst.

His passing revealed something of the quiet closeness we'd shared – a thread of light-hearted texts full of raindrops and bug faces, which he adored – and whispers of musical collaborations; we wanted to cover 'Dream A Little Dream Of Me'...we thought we had time.

I hadn't realized just how much our ongoing exchange had served as one of my anchors – a reliable source of light and joy, forever there...in my pocket. Losing that highlighted the stickiness of my own shadows, making them feel more dense, somehow...even more difficult to shake.

Nic hadn't just offered nourishing bits of light – he also knew some of my most vulnerably personal stories – the sticky truths of my struggle with depression – the impossibly deep shame I carry around past traumas. He knew these things and loved me anyway, encouraging me to keep writing about it.

He was a better friend to me than either of us realized. He was also one of my favorite artists to photograph – so contagiously alive – a self-described 'joy-monger' who believed people were like acorns; full of wonderful potential.

I miss him...so damn much.

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Painful Proximity

Exactly two years after losing Nic, I was faced with the incomprehensible loss of an entire family...The Harts. Though their vehicle was discovered on the 26th of March 2018, I strongly suspect it left the roadway the evening before.

Not long after learning of it – during a moment of shock and disbelief – I haphazardly stumbled into the very center of that tragedy, unwittingly identifying myself as a target for news media and hateful trolls alike.

I have no one but myself to blame for that; I acted impulsively, without considering how vocalizing my perspective might ensnare me in an ongoing narrative...wether or not I wanted to be part of it. How could I possibly have predicted that I'd still be getting interview requests twelve months later?

I've spent hours writing about it – forever intending to finish a lengthy piece that simply evades completion. Perhaps it's time to take up my pen again...sort through the wreckage and try, once again, to make sense of a thing that will never make sense. Maybe that'll help me find some kind of closure. I have need of that.

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Echoes

What strikes me about these unrelated yet coinciding tragedies is that both reinforced similar lessons. However unlikely, there's a thread that connects them – an underlying resemblance in how they unsettled me.

Both floored me, in vastly different yet similar ways, forcing me to confront my depression head on. I'm not sure I can articulate precisely what I mean by that, yet, but I know there's something there for me to take a deeper look at.

It has something to do with finding the courage to be unabashedly honest about things I've tried so hard to conceal – to let the hard-truth of my pervasive sorrow be known, rather than continuing to isolate and wrestle my formidable demons alone.

Extracting meaning from these excruciating losses hasn't been easy, yet I owe it to them to try. I owe it to myself, too...as well as all of you.

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Blessed Contrast

I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge today's contrasting storyline; that of my recently critically ill brother, Saul.

Today – after a month and a half in intensive care – he 'graduated' from the ICU. This is no small improvement...we've been waiting for this moment for weeks, crossing our fingers that it might come soon.

I'm still catching my breath after spending all those days at his bedside. His illness shook me...shook my family, in ways that might take a while to recover from. I returned home in a state of profound emotional and physical exhaustion. Plugging back in to everyday life has proven difficult.

Beneath it all, however, is unshakeable gratitude. I'm in awe of modern medical technology and keenly aware of how fortunate we are to live in this age. For many agonizing days, Saul was traversing the most narrow precipice, with so little margin for error – kept alive by a fascinating orchestra of machines and nurses and a seemingly endless string of specialists.

We could so easily have lost him – we almost did, a few times. Thankfully, we have quite the opposite to celebrate; such a beautiful counterpoint to that which makes my heart ache on this day.

Life is, indeed, the most inestimable gift.

As always, thank you so much for reading.

xo,
Zippy

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