I Miss My Best Friend

My Best Friends Sacred Symbol

I sit here overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean with everything I've ever wanted to create - but there's more.

I miss my best friend.

She was a daughter, a soul mate, an artist, a saint.  She could make me laugh like a hyena.  What are hyena's laughing about anyway?

This blog is not really intended to be read by the general public, but what the heck?  Dominique told me that writers live for readers to read their words.  So be it.  If you happen to read this, dear reader, I hope you enjoy my words.  I have to get them out.  I must.  Let's see what happens.

I hope I never see another dead body as long as I live.  I don't mean that in a hurtful way.  Oh no.  A "sack of flesh" as My Best Friend would call it.  Or a "Muneca de Coucho" (rubber doll) as my Ecuadorian mother would call it.  When I saw her lying in that crappy hospital bed for the last time - well, I forgot to open the window as one of the nursing home workers told me to do.  Her name was Lydia.  She loved My Best Friend.  She advised me that when a spirit passes, to open the window so that it can escape through the window and not be stuck in the room.

 I suppose I could be writing all of this stuff, which just seems way too personal, in a spiral notebook and hide it under my mattress, the way I used to with all my journals until my daughters read them.  But what the heck (as you can tell, I don't like to curse)  I like the blog format, so here I am.

I'm reading a book on writing which was written by Stephen King.  The first part of the book is a bit of a memoir.  He talks about things that an international superstar, best selling novelist knows will go out to the world.  And he does it without a bit of r egret.  I, for one, would be quite embarrassed to admit to the fact that I was so hard up to get high that I drank Scope mouthwash.  Luckily, I've never gone to those lengths.  He dealt with, and overcame, a severe drug addiction and he doesn't care who knows.  Gotta hand it to him for honesty and realism in writing.

The best writing is authentic.

I'm a writer.  I may be a competent writer.  Let's see if I can create a great writer.  That's part of what this writing space is about.  Secondly, I've got to get some of this stuff off my chest.

So what killed her?  Was it the cancer?  Was it the high levels of drugs?  Was it the idea that she just didn't want to be here anymore?  My Best Friend had two sides.  She was an amazingly creative person who had a crazy, fun, outrageous sense of humor.  I've never laughed so hard in my life.  She also had a dark side.  She freely states in her writing that she admitted herself to psychiatric hospitals for clinical depression a couple of times.  I remember one story she told me from the "nervous hospital".  The staff had all these activities that were meant to be fun and distracting.  One day they played Pictionary.  My Best Friend drew a card in which she was to draw a guillotine.  Well, give that card to a professional artist who also happens to be mentally ill and what have you got?  A handful of other mentally ill patients who need just one more thing to push them over the edge.  Her artistic rendition sent several of the patients running out of the room screaming.

Speaking of death - there is no such thing.  My best friend lives on.  I can feel her in my writing.  My biggest wish and prayer is that I will someday (why not today) make her proud.

I sure do miss the heck out of picking up the phone and calling her though.  Guess I'm going to have to go to the psychic hot line for that.

Meanwhile, I'm getting up from the computer, getting out of my sweats, putting on a pretty dress, and going to dinner with my handsome husband.

Live your life, my dear readers.  Who knows?  I may even have dessert!