I’ve waited so long to watch Episode IX. Why? Not because I heard it was bad, but because I’d finally have to say goodbye to Carrie.

On December 25th, 2016, I spent the night at the Golden Nugget in Tucson, singing karaoke with newish friends and eating Domino’s pizza I’d ordered to the bar. It was a year to the day since my suicide attempt. George Michael had died earlier in the day and everyone was singing along to his music in some sort of cathartic tribute to him and to the end of year in which so many greats were lost and in which the battle against Trump had also ended in misery and heartache.

We were all hoping for Carrie to pull through. She was on a ventilator at UCLA. She was our last hope. She would die two days later.

Tonight, I say goodbye to Leia, to Carrie, and to the four years of my rebirth. I’ve learned so much in that time. You don’t know what Carrie meant to me. She gave dignity to the face of mental illness. She gave wit and pluck and charm. I admire her so greatly, not just for her amazing talents, her precocious youth spent with Griffin Dunne and every major star of the 20th Century. I love her because she couldn’t help but to be lovable, even in her flaws. 

It’s 2020. You better believe I’m fucking steeled against hardship and heartache. I don’t know what lies ahead. The world could crumble around me and I’d find my way out of the ash. We’re gonna make it through. Or go down fighting.