Writing by candlelight in the middle of the night with a glass of wine, age 24. In the middle of two control towers, unmoored. Navigational systems are down.
I carried a used tissue around in my pocket for weeks just to remind myself that I can cry. Even so, it’s become hard for me to remember. I intellectualize my feelings so much and have become so incredibly good at squashing them that it’s hard for me to find them even within myself and even when I try. I’m scared of not feeling anything or that I can’t anymore.
I feel pangs of the void in my stomach and in my throat and I notice them in the catch in my breath or in the moment that I unlock my front door. I notice the fleeting nature of the moments of joy — not in a sad way, just that it is. In some ways, my eyes are clearer now than ever before. I feel pangs of feeling when I lift my hand to my heart, silently counting the beats and checking for arrhythmia.
I know that in order to continue growing and healing and doing the Figuring Out that is part of becoming a hell of a thing, I must feel. I must allow my stomach to hurt and myself to cry and instead of holding the pieces together and inside like I’ll die if I don’t, I must let the pieces fall, sometimes, and the cracks show, because I will die if I don’t let go.
I think if I met me it would be obvious I’m in some sort of deep existential pain. But I’m pretty good at obfuscation.
I need space that’s wide enough for me to feel some degree of the grief that are the cannonball holes in my heart. To loosen my grip, to let myself be. I’m always doing and I’m never being.
I need space that’s wide enough for me to lie down in and let the edges blur with the rest. I try to heal my wounds with salves that hurt. It works for a while.
It’s always been hard for me to look ahead to the future. I’ve always had lofty goals and I love making plans, but somewhere inside I know it’s all up to chance so it’s hard to plan.