[feyd in-too yoo]: Regarded as one of the top songs of the ’90s, the band’s breakout hit boosted the album to platinum status, with more than a million sales. The exposure also thrust Mazzy Star into the spotlight – a place they never wanted to be. Hope Sandoval and David Roback, the band’s producer/guitarist, were indifferent to fame. The notoriously taciturn duo didn’t like performing live or doing interviews, and Sandoval refused to speak about her lyrics. Looking back on their seminal tune in 2013, Sandoval would only tell The Guardian: “I think it’s a good song.”

The House God Has Forgotten part 77: A few of the things I have seen.

I found this song, it reminded me of today. I used to listen to this song in my teenage angst lying on my bed, wishing of leaving the hell I was in. (My father was taking methamphetamine need I say more). I would look at the ceiling and close my eyes and wish I was somewhere else. I became obsessed with death, and the romance of it.

But we all know there is nothing romantic about dying. It is a cold dark place where people that want to kill themselves think is warm like a blanket.

They never think of who is going to find the body.

I once saw someone kill themselves. Well after at least, and it is something I rarely talk about. Most people do not even know I have seen it. It is just one of those many tragic things I have seen in my life that I never talk about.

He shot himself in the head with a shotgun after being discovered that he molested his two young daughters.

I spent that night in the police car with the wife. Driving around and hearing her mixed emotions. This was the man she married, but this was the man that ruined their children’s life.

Anger to tears. Tears to anger.

I could not tell her he was dead (a doctor has to verify that), so I just kept telling her “I don’t know…we will have to see when the doctor is finished examining him.”

I saw him. His head was gone.

I think of my friend, who did not blow her head off but slowly killed herself. Drugs became her passion and nothing could take their place.

We used to hang out in High School and she was the coolest person I knew.

She always protected me.

We would go out and when she left me at home, she would then go off into the night and take drugs. When she was having a rough time and getting high all the time, she would not talk to me.

It was like both of us knew that she was protecting me. I lived around drugs and she did not want me to see her change by them also.

I remember one day she and I were in the car by ourselves. The rain was pouring on the windshield and the radio was on low. Two things that rarely happened. The silence was filled with the sound of the windshield wipers squeaking on the window as they took the water away from my view.

She looked out the window staring out onto the road. She said with a serious tone in her voice:

“Promise me you will never take LSD. You already see the world in such a beautiful way, I never want you to change that.”

I often sit here almost 30 years later and wonder why she said that to me. Out of the blue like that.

I have tried a gauntlet of things (to try to figure out what drew my parents to them), but I never took LSD because I promised her.

I found out a few years later she was in love with me, but I rejected her because of the drugs she took. You like to think that maybe you can save someone like that from slowly killing themselves.

“Maybe if I would have given her a chance I could have fixed her.”

It will be always a big question I will have in my baggage.

She wrote to me when I lived in Japan. Letters, long before e-mail. She would tell me about all the crazy things she saw in her world. She would try to make her hell sound like it had funny parts in it too.

I looked forward to getting those letters.

The last time I saw her in person was after she wrote me a long serious letter her sister gave me in the car at the airport when I came to visit her family.

For the first time, she did not tell me the funny stuff. She told me the reality. I wish I would have kept her letter. I don’t know what I did with it.

She stood in the same room as I did on that trip, and we did not even say hello.

It was the last time I saw her in person.

We would fall in and out of touch.

“I am back on heroin again. Don’t tell anyone please.”

When I had my breakdown and was falling apart. Drinking alcohol and lying on the floor thinking of ways to kill me. I did not think about my daughter, I looked at my cats and thought: “Who will find them to take care of them when I am gone?”

I tattoed the date they were born on my arm.

And then it would be another night where I would not do it.

This would go on over and over again. Me being afraid of going on the commuter train because I want to jump on the tracks. It took me 6 months before I got help and put on my medicine (with a lot of trial and error).

She would tell me that I am going to be a good mother. The best.

I pushed her away. I deleted my Facebook account.

We started writing to each other e-mails after I got better. Here and there. Her and I telling each other we loved each other. Me dreaming of rescuing her.

The last words I ever heard from her were:

“I do not remember much in my life, but I remember every moment with you.”

I wrote her back. I got a mail shortly after that she was gone.

I tattoed the date she died on my arm.

I think of the telephone calls that you listen to that people made 19 years ago today on the phone when they knew they were going to die.

Some of them in fear, and some of them trying to sound calm as they leave the message on the phone…

“Tell my children that I love them.”

“I know I am going to die…” with fear in their voices as they knew that there was no way down.

And the desperate that jump. You see their ties flopping in the air as they quickly feel the plunge of gravity.

So desperate. They think it is worth a chance.

I tested shortly after on the free-fall at Grona Lund too see if I had time to think on my way down, I did.

They must have thought volumes.

I think about my step-mother that is dying of terminal cancer in her whole body. She is on experimental medicine, but eventually, that will stop working.

She spends most of her days in bed. She lies there and slowly thinks about how she is going to die soon, slowly, with a long time to think about it.

They found a white spot on her brain yesterday. It could be from old age, it could be something else.

My father waits for his wife of 37 years to find treatments, look at scans and log medicine. He wonders what he is going to do when she is gone.

As with everything I know, I can just sit and watch. Like the woman in the car I spent that night with, the friend I was never able to help, myself always waiting in fear of that one day I might turn the other direction again without control, every phone call or video of someone dying right in front of my eyes on social media, or someone I know slowly being eaten alive by a disease no one knows how to control or fix.

That girl you see with scars on her arms from cutting herself, don’t be afraid of asking them if they are ok.

That silent inmate you see in his or her cell that suddenly stops talking and eating and never says anything is someone you should look out for. They are the ones that need you.

Be that person that says “You can tell me anything if you need someone to listen to.”

You never know when you made need it too.

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