You know that feeling where your heart sort of wells up with far too much all at once?
Yeah.
I mean, there are the obvious things that are on my mind, like that stupid little yellow house that I’m trying so hard not to dwell on the thought of having because I’m so unlikely to actually score it, along with my usual pre-gym session anxiety that I’m experiencing over tomorrow’s appointment, plus the usual late-night crumbling that happens to my psyche. There’s other things as well though, stuff that although I hint at in writing, I never actually discuss with anyone. Anyone. And as much as I’d like to change that, I’ve been beaten down so many times in what feels like an endless succession of shitty luck, shitty relationships, shitty “discussions”, and shitty treatment that it seems better to just keep it to myself and try my best to get on with things because, in my world, people are absolutely untrustworthy unless you place trust in their negative attributes. Once you know what they’re capable of, you no longer have high standards for their behaviour and learn to expect being let-down (thus not bothering to get your hopes up in the first place). I try to tell myself that this behaviour leaves room to be pleasantly surprised, but I’m not very good at fooling myself these days. Sometimes I wish I was.
The very biggest of the things that I don’t talk about is the one that seeps into numerous areas of my daily life; I exert an absolutely enormous amount of effort to keep it out of my thoughts. I can usually succeed in stifling its presence until evening, unless I start my day waking up from a dream where I’ve been forced to visit it. I know I’m expected to talk about this “it”, but as much as I think I want to, a larger portion of me doesn’t want to at all. I know that isn’t healthy, but whenever I try to “let it out” as some people put it, the words stall in my throat and I smile and shake it off, reflexively changing the subject and withdrawing into my mask-like alternate ego. And then I sit and continue my visit with whoever I’m with, choking on half-swallowed descriptions of what I feel and why, and the all the reasons that this makes no sense to me and can’t be ignored.
I know people judge and discuss me, and hold opinions of the things I do and feel: maybe opinions that could be considered harsh. If I could let them know that I know why they think what they do of me, and make them really believe it, I might feel a little better. I know how crazy I look sometimes, and how completely hopeless and irritating and repetitive my behaviour can be. It isn’t right, and it needs to be fixed. But at the same time, knowing that it isn’t right and still finding a way to survive and fix it, all on my own with such minimal mental or emotional support, is daunting. More than that, it’s fucking hard to do. Have you ever tried to alter what you feel? Have you ever tried to alter what you feel when what you feel is medically deviant and has almost killed you a few times already? Have you ever tried to alter what you feel when you aren’t sure what’s you, and what’s your disease?
I don’t know how much else I should say.
On Nights Like Tonight
On nights like tonight I lay awake with ridiculous tears streaming down my face over things long past and yet still entirely, miraculously current. The things I have to achieve the next day mean nothing because I know that I will feel nothing, or at least very little, as I do them, no matter their design. Going through the motions to get things that need doing done, not feeling the pounding of my feet on a treadmill or the stretch of my muscles as they pull my body into the beautiful yoga poses my newest enjoyment asks of me, not hearing the words I say in love to others come back and echo in my insides with that particular warmth they should undoubtedly inspire: all of my most natural ties to the moment are clipped. I am separated from both my body and the world by a cloud that will not disperse with the cold winds outdoors; on nights like tonight, it is far colder inside.
On nights like tonight I feel the rawness in my throat and the salty trails on my cheeks and think to myself that this will never go away: will never leave me. When I reach for those who can’t and won’t help, I’m told that the scars will stay, but that I will still find a way out, somehow. Although I try to take comfort from words like those, as I see it, scars can be reopened… and each time it happens they thicken and grow deeper, like the roots of noxious weeds that tear up surrounding flowers when pulled. If I didn’t feel emptiness at such a depth on a night like tonight, I’m sure that I would be afraid; I’m also sure that I should be, for whatever that’s worth.
So with tongue in cheek, I say that, thankfully, for now I can only feel a void all lined with grief worn smooth. Nights like tonight may be long and tortured, but so long as I fight for the thought of a day like tomorrow, hope might not be too far off.
It’s not raining, but it feels like it should be.
Everything’s wet with mist outside, and all I can hear is the wind in the trees and the odd car’s tires whipping over the slick black pavement of the road below. It’s usually quiet here, and right now the sky makes it feel like it should be early morning rather than just past midnight. The pool looks like a little green lake, and faded stars exactly like the dead light they’re made of: no sparkle or shine.
I don’t have much I can say. I’m just here, sitting on the edge of my bed, looking out my fourth-floor window. Just breathing, and listening to echoes. Just silent, entertaining fuzzy hopes that now have small holes in them like wormwood. My phone has gone off a few times tonight and my heart has leapt with each buzz, but the flutters fall to nausea every time I look at the name in the sender line. This isn’t what I want. This place isn’t what I want.
I know better than to assume the position of my old character from that chicken-scratch comic strip. I knew better than to do it then, and I know even better now. That little pilot light was blown out, and although it’s stubborn and continues to fight to relight itself from its own embers out of sheer power, I’m doing my best to smother it. To force it to snuff out, since it can’t seem to understand and do so on its own. It can cast a lot of light into my day, but it can also leave me with third-degree burns if I don’t tend the flame properly, and that’s not something I want to carry.
I think I would like to get dressed and disappear. I don’t know where I’m going.
Anonymous
i want to warn you. i feel like i have to. please please don't shut all your emotions inside you. it's okay to be scared, and it is definitely okay to cry- i was in a situation similar to yours but it was my grandmother. and i was scared. i didn't cry. i ran away from it. i held it together until the very end and completely lost control. i freaked out, and said a lot of things i didn't mean. it's easier to let your emotions out little by little- though it may hurt a lot it's healthier to accept your heartbreak and let it out. i hope you're alright. i don't want you to hurt as much as i did. let it out.
Thank you very much for your concern. I appreciate your advice and story, very much. I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother.
Unfortunately, I’ve already let my personal troubles become too visible this year. It’s gotten me into a lot of trouble, and has cost me a lot of incredibly precious things in my life. Thus, I don’t think I will be letting as much escape as I have in the past, not only because of the fears I easily associate with opening my floodgates, but also because of my the responsibility that currently sits on my shoulders when it comes to my family and its overall function. My job is to take it, and take it quietly. If I do need to let it out, and I will, it won’t be where anyone can see it. Don’t worry too much, friend.
