“It’s so curious: one can resist tears and ‘behave’ very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer… and everything collapses.”
Sidonie Gabrielle Colette
We have moved.
That is, to say, my husband, dog, and I have moved to a new neighborhood.
It is supposed to perfect. Land of milk and honey.
Instead, it has been land of:
getting screamed at by our crazy neighbors
land of panic attacks
land of hiding inside because we are just so dang TIRED of all of it.
So here we are.
In a great house.
In a great neighborhood.
Where if I could figure out how to take someone whose communication style can only be described as “loud” and make them understanding, I feel I could bring about peace in the middle east.
There is no sympathy.
There is no empathy.
There is no understanding.
I have hidden from this journal, friends, because written what I feel hurts too damn much.
Writing what I feel breaks my heart.
I don’t think of myself as a coward, but here, here after all we’ve been through, I want to build a pillow fort under our dining room table and drink bourbon til I pass out.
Which was last birthday, helpfully dubbed The Manhattan Project, and I won’t be trying that again, thank you.
The only reason I’m writing right now is I’m 3 gin and tonics in and I’m just so tired.
I can’t even ask for help any more. How could anyone help? How can you help someone who day in and day out feels their life slowly falling through their fingers. How do you help someone who got their husband a dog to help him through depression and now that dog is the reason for THEIR depression? How do you help someone who just wants SOMEONE to understand that, right now, they CAN’T be happy, they CAN’T help you, they CAN’T host you they CAN’T do anything except shower, put on make-up, and go to work and pretend everything is ok.
Everything is NOT ok.
It is not ok to feel like this. I’m not going to hurt myself. That sort of thing is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. But some days…
Some days I just want to run away. I want to hide. I’m TIRED of facing my troubles head on and coping. I’m tried of making everything think I’m ok.
And there are a few people…very few…
who see through the facade.
And they ask.
And I tell them to go away.
I don’t call them. I don’t write. I don’t email. I don’t talk. Because they know.
They know, just by looking at me.
That it hurts.
It hurts too much.
And I can’t talk to them because when they see…
I break down.
I can’t afford to break down. I can’t afford to lose it all right now.
So I have stolen moments in the night.
I go in the bathroom and cry.
I go downstairs and I cry.
I wait 5 minutes before I go in the house and cry.
I hide in the car and cry.
Because my husband…
he could have died.
It is 2 months after the fact.
After someone put a gun in his face.
And we keep going through our day, as though it hasn’t changed us.
“You know, I always thought it’d be cancer. Never though it could be at the end of a gun.”
And we laugh, and grow quiet.
Because it could have been at the end of a gun. A man, who doesn’t do anything more dangerous than play video games. Could have died.
For the sake of a car. A cell phone. And a laptop.
Now I want to take risks. And I know its not safe.
I want to sky dive.
I want to do things that I’d never normally do.
Because any moment could be our end.
And this should empower me to yell back to our neighbors. It should empower me to be braver and smarter and more alive.
But there’s still the fort under the table.
There’s still the safety of the bed.
And it is EVERYTHING i can do to not crawl back under there.
This is why you should be kind. To everyone you see, everyone you interact with. You should be kind.
Because they could be falling apart.
And you’d never know.