Grief, Time, and Writing the Rulebook
Memory is a finite resource. There are only so many moments the mind can hold onto, and over time many of those moments fade.
Three years after Ruddy's death, I've begun to acknowledge that I only have so many memories of him. I have a system for clinging to memories, and when I think of Ruddy it kicks into gear. First my mind jumps to the highlights; our most meaningful, hilarious, and heartbreaking moments together. Then I rewind and work chronologically – what's my first memory of Ruddy? Am I missing anything? How many memories can I dig up? I replay the sound of his laughter, I watch his face contort in an expression of unapologetic sass. I rewind and mine for more.
Sometimes I find a memory I thought was lost forever; a long-held hug in the halls of SBY, or a moment of chatting during an evening event at the aquarium. But as time passes, I can feel some of the memories slipping away.
It's like I'm holding a stack of paper that gets caught in the wind, and I'm left chasing them around, frantically snatching them out of the air. Each time I rifle through those memories – when I capture those pieces of flying paper and stack them neatly into a pile, tucking them into my bag – there are fewer. A stray piece of paper or two inevitably flies away, and I don't even know which one it is. Because it's gone.
Part of grieving is recognizing that you can't create new memories. I grapple with this often; there are so many things I wanted to ask Ruddy, and so many adventures I wish we had taken. And on the heels of all that wishing, I feel immense gratitude for the memories I do have and the time I got to share with him.
Ruddy and I had a lot of chats about a lot of things. We talked about science, activism, yoga, french fries. Animals and education.
But chief among the topics was relationships (read: boys). Nearly every time we met up, the conversation touched on who we were dating, the cute guys we spotted in our travels, and the nature of love and connection in the modern world.
One of the "highlight" memories I have was one of those conversations. We were sitting in the office at SBY, and I shared how unsure I felt about the future of my dating life.
Ruddy had a wonderful ability to shift from goofball to sage in an instant. After quietly listening to all of my doubts, fears, and insecurities, he leaned towards me.
With a softness that I'll always cherish, he said, “You make the rules. You make the rules in your relationships."
It sounds simple, and really, doesn't good advice always? But it was earth shattering. I had spent a long time trying to measure up to who I thought I was supposed to be in relationships, in friendships, in work, in life. And in a casual chat about boys, Ruddy broke all of that away.
In the years since he shared this piece of wisdom, I've kept this phrase as a mantra.
"You make the rules."
It's guided every relationship decision, every career choice, every mental health day, every risk, and every joy. It's been my North Star. It has taught me how to think creatively about what I want from this life, to stand firmly on my feet, and to never apologize for being who I am.
Of course, this is a practice and a process. The work is never done.
But as I look in the mirror today I'm pretty proud of the life I've cultivated. And I know that all that I have, in some way, began with that conversation with Ruddy about cute boys.
It's a memory that I don't think will ever slip away. But even if it does, it feels comforting to know that I don't need to look back to find Ruddy. There's a little bit of him, and the way he lived his life, alive and well within me.