For Lisa

Yo

So I got myself a new tattoo last Thursday, 8 September; like most times either of us were getting tattoos, I sent you a message. Come Saturday, I could see you still hadn’t seen it (the message or the tattoo.) I knew something was up. I know some part of you would hate me for messaging Alan to ask, but I had to.

And I knew. Some part of me knew. He and I, we talked on the phone, the longest time we’ve ever interacted except through you.

I can’t believe it. But I’m not surprised.

I’m not hurt; but I’m sad.

I’m sad and I’m broken and I’m hurting and I can only imagine what your closer friends and family are thinking and feeling.

I’m writing this for me, but I hope that (maybe) everyone…all of them can get a smile from this shit. Because you used to make us all smile. And you still will, far bigger smiles than you ever thought you would get from us.

I’m doing the sums, and it’s probably 20+ years that I’ve known you. Cos we’re fucking old. Some point around1998, maybe 1999, random Saturday afternoons around Temple Bar and Grafton Street, the occasional trip to the north-side of town, mutual friends/acquaintances turning into actual friends. We talked such bullshit it was funny; we’d go into Asha in Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre and think about buying rock-band T-shirts; we’d go into Tower Records when it was still on Nassau Street where you and I and Jess would look at tarot cards and horror books. I think you always knew that I was also going in there to look at the shelves next to them, the gay magazines with naked men in them.

There was a gang of people, but there was also us. We’d talk by old-fashioned text messages about silly things, usually Buffy The Vampire Slayer or Charmed. We’d talk on IMs…I can’t even remember the brand, was it Yahoo Messenger? Oh, Queen Of Mumtah; still your handle on a few outlets.

I mention Tower Records and Charmed cos you were probably the first one I told about my dirty little secret, that thing that I wasn’t sure how to process. I wasn’t sure if I knew it myself. Drew Fuller playing Chris Halliwell in Charmed: handsome, charming, hot. You’d done your Leaving Cert the year before the rest of us; you’d grown up. But we still talked from time to time, and a random chat about this random character showing up in Charmed out of nowhere was my chance to talk to you .

I have a type, okay!!

It was a chat by text message; I don’t know how you reacted in real life. You were a bit surprised, maybe?

But you were supportive; it didn’t end the chat, like I was fucking terrified it would.

We both worked through college; we were both in different colleges; social media didn’t really exist. But every time we’d run into each other, there was none of this awkward “Hrm, so where are you now and what you up to and…that’s nice, we’ll meet up for a chat some day, bye.” Sure, we said that shit, but we both actually fucking meant it. We would message later to say “great to see you” or something like that; neither of us had the time to arrange a proper meet-up. But we both understood that; there wasn’t this awkward just saying bullshit. We genuinely did want to meet up and talk…well, bullshit.

When Facebook came around, we were the type of people who would like each other’s posts; we would comment, and there would be some sort of smirk, or laugh. We knew each other that well, that there were no airs and graces; it was just like the olden days.

That’s why I messaged you that night in 2014. I was in Beaumont Hospital, just lying there waiting to stop leaking cerebral spinal fluid all over the fucking gaff, unable to sleep. It was 2am-ish, and I checked the phone to see you posting something about your own mental health, being in the hospital. We hadn’t spoken in a while, but I dropped you a DM.

I’m sorry for my phrasing, but I think some part of you hated me for dropping that message. You didn’t want that message. You didn’t think you deserved that message.

But you fucking did. I was wide awake in a hospital, as were you; if a few minutes conversation would give either of us some comfort, we could easily do that. If we were both in the same fucking hospital, I would gladly walk to another ward and talk with you.

I know you appreciated it, though. You trusted me; I was aware of that, and it was an honour to feel that.

After that initial moment, we got closer again. We remained honest with each other; we’d talk about our partners, about our lives. When one (or both of us) would check in at a hospital appointment, there would be a comment: we would know that someone outside of our immediate circles was thinking of us .

There was something gorgeous about that. I got such strength from that.

I hope you did too. I really hope so, knowing that someone that you didn’t see every day was sending goodwill, and just because they didn’t talk to you every day, you knew that we could, right?

Myself and Dan, Melissa and Chris, you invited us to the afters of your wedding, and it was just like the olden days; met Fiona in real life for the first time, danced like fuck to metal songs at a wedding.

Lisa…you looked fucking gorgeous that day. For all your fears about your body and your mental health, you looked beautiful.

And what’s more; you looked happy.

One of my favourite memories ever was a couple of weeks later; I asked you about some of the pieces you had at the wedding, and you offered them to us for our own. Myself and Dan met you in Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre (like the olden days) and we had lunch. I asked you if you were comfortable there, with eating, and you were honest. We sat and we ate and we talked such bullshit it was great.

I remember that time, particularly because I finally had back-up with telling Dan that I wasn’t a fucking goth; neither of us had the money, nor time, to live that fucking life. GOD, I loved having back-up telling my husband that he was wrong about something!!!

When Flynn and Darcy joined your family, I was so happy for you; when your mam passed away, I was worried for you. You and your mental health were such dark places that it was scary. But you never hid it. I never wanted you to know that there wasn’t someone who would listen to you.

We had our little project, your diaries that you wanted to right and put together, your way of putting things behind you and I would help you with getting them out there, edit them, or help you just to put them onto some website, get them out of your head and put them behind you. I was so proud of you for thinking like that; I was looking forward to helping you do that.

But it wasn’t just me.

There was more than just a single someone; there was more than just a few people who loved you to bits, who would do anything for you.

COVID. I don’t want to blame COVID, but it fucked you up even more than it should have. It fucked up so many people’s mental health, and is still doing so. Healthcare treatments in this country are fucking shit, mostly cos of the money (or lack thereof.)

I know you went to therapy sessions and they just weren’t good enough; I know that HSE changed your therapist, and the new “support” was anything but, that people who hadn’t even bothered to read your file and your history. They asked if you had tried mindfulness, had you tried CBT therapy? YES, OF COURSE YOU HAD FUCKING TRIED THEM. YOU HAD BEEN USING THEM FOR YEARS. And…they just weren’t working the way you fucking needed them to. And the rest of the world wasn’t giving you the chance to process. COVID, saying goodbye to your mam: you just didn’t have the chance to put those skills into practice.

Fuck, did we talk about that shit. Cos I fucking knew you understood when I talked about my own mental health: you were so supportive. You fucking listened; no condescending “Have you tried this” or the like. Just…”here is someone else to talk to, someone who would just let you get it out of your system, and maybe make a joke in there that would lighten the tone somewhat.”

You had such a tough few months over the last while, I could see you hurting, I could see you spiralling. Some part of you knew it too. You were using your skill-set, and you were using it well.

I thought you were using it well.

I wanted you to vent at me, if you needed; this outside voice who would listen, and nod. I wanted you to tell me about the kids (ew, kids!) and the dogs. And sometimes it worked (it wasn’t just me doing this either; I’m not that fucking egotistical.)

Yeah, we had different tastes in movies and dogs; we both liked different bands and different TV shows. It came recently too: remember only a few weeks ago that you messaged me wondering what the FUCK you had just watched when I suggested Glorious to you?

And then…

Then it happened.

Now it’s happened.

And it’s something so many of us have been worried about for years. You fucking fought it for so fucking long; you were doing so fucking well, Lisa. So well.

I don’t know how I feel right now. I just have these memories and these thoughts and this pain and I just want to give out to you or distract you or ring someone in in mental health services and tell them that this is their fault. They they let this happen to you.

Yeah, I’m angry. I’m looking out the window right now at the rain that’s pouring down and I want to talk to you about pathetic fallacy and how you wish you’d done English in college (like you wanted.)

You were my friend, Lisa. And I don’t want to use the past tense here.

You still are. Wherever you are, you are still my fucking friend.

When I see you again, wherever that might me, whenever that might be; I am going to hug you, I am going to give out to you, and then…I know you are going to hug me back. I’m going to show you this new tattoo. And you are going to love it.

And we’re going to talk about the Queen trying to steel your glory.

And we’re going to talk about The Lord Of The Rings: The Rings Of Power.

And we’re going to talk about the new season of Dragula.

And we’re going to talk about how much we miss you. And I’m not going to give you the names of who the “we” is.

Because it is absolutely fucking everyone. And they’re all going to be there too, so many of us that there will be a huge fucking queue and I’m not even top of that. And maybe then, you’ll realise how much the lot of us love you. How much the lot of us miss you.

Rest in peace, Lisa. I love you. I miss you. And I thank you.