the most honest thing I've ever written

Where love finds its place

Disclaimer: this is probably about as serious as I will get in a post, so if you’re here for a good time not a long time, you might want to skip this one ;)

In a previous post, I shared that a little over a year ago, I lost someone incredibly special to me. At the time, I didn’t talk about it much, not even to those closest to me. If I’m honest, I’m not even sure I knew how. The emotions I felt were so complex and foreign to me, having been my first experience with serious grief, that I didn’t even know where to start. My love had no idea where to settle, so I bottled most of it up and put it on a shelf, mentally labeling it “something I’ll deal with later.”

It’s only now that I realize what a thief I was—robbing both myself and those close to me by not talking about it, even the raw, unfiltered emotions. When you’re not sure if you can carry the weight of your own grief, it feels natural to worry about burdening others with it. But what I’m learning in building community is that it’s okay, albeit vital, to “inconvenience” someone. Communities flourish under mutual support: borrowing butter, shoveling snow off driveways, being a good neighbor, and sharing in grief.

Talking about it is still a little rough, but I can write and that’s a start. And if you’re a friend (or even if we aren’t friends yet), maybe you can help me practice being a bit braver by asking me about it sometime.

Jason was my first “best friend”. I can’t remember a specific moment when we became friends (my memory from 1st grade isn’t the sharpest), but I suppose we came together pretty naturally like young kids do. But it was clear early on that our friendship was special. Despite the teasing I’m sure he endured over having a friend who was a girl, Jason never seemed the least bit bothered by it. He was always my protector— heroically defending me against the relentless taunting of our older brothers.

In those early years, it felt like we spent almost every day together. My favorite memories include riding our bikes to Baskin Robbins for ice cream, playing video games at his house, climbing trees, and just being kids in the purest sense. No matter what we were doing, you could always count on tons of laughter. Very few people have ever made me laugh the way Jason could.

As we grew older, we were pulled in different directions—me shedding my tomboy ways and spending more time with my girlfriends, and him becoming the ultimate athlete and “guy’s guy”—but we always remained close. I guess I shouldn’t say always because we often fought like an old married couple. He knew all my buttons and could sometimes be a real pain in the ass, but hey, so could I. When you love someone that much, you care enough to fight. We always knew our bond was strong enough to withstand any silly disagreement. We often joked that we’d eventually get married someday, but we both knew that would never work. Instead, I decided that if I ever did get married, I’d forgo the traditional Maid of Honor and have him as my Best Man.

When I went away to college in Indiana, I could only make it back to California a few times a year. Because my time was so precious when I was home, there was a very short list of people I wanted to spend it with. Jason was always at the top of that list. True to form, he’d always drop everything to see me, even if it meant driving hours from LA to Fresno for just an afternoon. He never made me feel like it was a burden or a disruption; he made me feel like it was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to do.

When we’d see each other, the biggest smile would spread across his face, and he’d swoop me up into his arms (he was quite a bit taller than me) and give me the warmest, most sincere hug. He had this way of making you feel really special when he saw you. If I could go back in time and relive one moment of my life, it would probably be one of those hugs.

I like remembering Jason this way, his infectious smile and all the joy he reflected, because thinking about him in any other way breaks my heart. But the truth is, Jason struggled immensely. We all have our demons, but Jason’s were the kind of nightmares. Those demons weighed on him heavily, and he found escape in the ways many people do. It made him a person I know he didn’t want to be, and ultimately, he became lost in his addictions.

In the last few years of his life, it was hard to be his friend. The happiness and laughter that so many people associated with him were no longer there; you could see the pain behind his eyes, even though he tried to hide it. He was a ghost of himself. And it was hard to keep up with his stories and lies—at some point, he became so good at it that I think he even started believing them himself. I don’t share this to dishonor his name or character, but it’s the truth, and I believe he would want me to be honest.

The last time I saw Jason was in March of 2020—right before COVID. I flew out to Laguna Beach (from Ohio, where I was living at the time) for a wedding, and he drove from LA to meet me one night for drinks. But this wasn’t the same Jason. While he looked the same, I could hardly recognize the person he had become, and I left feeling haunted.

the voicemail he left me after the last time I ever saw him

Our friendship hit a rough patch in the months following. Things seemed to be getting worse and worse. Eventually he said something over the phone that hurt my feelings, but instead of calling him out like I normally would, I silently retreated. Between the constant lying, his refusal to commit to sobriety, and his careless words, it hurt too much to stay close to him. He wasn’t the person I had always known, and I didn’t know how to love him anymore. Not many of us did.

I made a difficult decision to protect my own wellness and energy, and I stopped returning his texts and calls. It feels so cold and heartless now, but at the time, I truly believed it was the right thing to do, and that maybe, by taking this approach, he would find the impetus to turn his life around. And for a while, it seemed like maybe it was working. He even sent me an apology text at one point. I broke my own heart when I chose not to reply, but I had felt betrayed by his apologies and promises too many times before and I was skeptical of his sincerity.

Jason passed away on November 5, 2023. I found out two days later on my birthday, November 7th, when my parents called to break the news they had just learned. At that point, we hadn’t spoken in three years. I’ll never forget the complete shock and disbelief that washed over me. I truly didn’t think it was real, and it took days for me to accept the reality—he was gone.

I silently struggled with the weight of it for months, seeking solace in therapy, but what no one tells you about therapy is that it’s not a cure. It helps, but there’s nothing anyone can say that will take your pain away. It’s hard to grieve when you don’t feel worthy of the pain, as if your sorrow somehow doesn’t deserve a place alongside the loss. And while I’ve tried to process much of the sadness and guilt, these are things I carry with me every day, likely forever.

I wish desperately I could pick up the phone and call him to tell him how much I love him and care for him. Because I never stopped. I just took for granted that I thought we’d have time to find our way back to each other. I thought someday the sparkle would return to his eyes, and we’d embrace in one of our hugs, and everything would fall back into place.

Jason is in my dreams constantly. It’s always the same thing—some variation of his death not being real, some grand hoax or mysterious disappearance, and I’m the detective piecing the clues together to find him. I’m always trying to find him, desperately searching for him. I’m no dream expert, but I’m sure there’s something of significance there.

I miss him more than I know how to express in words, and I wonder if anyone will ever know me the way he did. I have many friends who I’d say know me well, but none like Jason did. It’s different when you grow up with someone like that—when you’ve seen each other through all stages of life and can see past all the bullshit and masks we start to wear as we age. He knew me before I knew it was possible to change. Friendships like that are rare and special, and I’ve come to understand that they should be cherished.

I often joke that as a writer, it feels like you’re bleeding out onto the paper every time you publish, but with this post, it feels especially so. If you’ve read this far, thank you. These are things I needed to say because the pain is real, and Jason was real. Not talking about it doesn’t make it less so.

walk boldly & tell the people you love you love them— especially when it’s hard,

Caroline