02/16/23

At the theatre tonight, the characters were reminiscing about “their most joyful moment”. For the rest of the play, that was all I could think about. Wracking my brain to try to answer the question that seized me: what was mine? 

Because that moment, my moment, has passed. That free, unadulterated joy you experience before life has its way with you, it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

But it did once. I didn’t stop to take it in as it was happening, the magic of opening the door and finding you waiting. Of serving you a warm, freshly baked cookie on a napkin. The exhilaration when you asked for another. The symphony that was Dad greeting you as he came home from work. The masterpiece that was the sound of your laugh, erupting when we needed it most, your glee forever infectious.

I don’t know what my most joyful moment was, but I know it involved you.

The desire to shrink, it’s claiming me. Hunger to keep me numb. Flesh turned to bone so my outsides can match my insides.

I’m trying to change. To control less. To be grateful. To claim joy when it finds me, the way you always wanted me to.

Yesterday, I went to the playground. It was 60 degrees in February and the sun was in my eyes and the swings were calling out to me. It felt good to soar. To fly so high that nothing mattered, until nausea claimed me, reminding me I am no longer a child. That freedom can only be experienced in 5-minute doses.

I want to crawl out of this hole and stay here forever and I’m tired of telling people you died with a smile to signal I’m okay when I’m shattered.

I try to let you guide my days. To listen to whatever it is you’re trying to tell me. To remain open when it is overwhelmingly tempting to lock myself up forever. Seductive. Hunger and booze and sex and things I seldom wanted calling out to me and how long can I continue to say no?

Why is it that the days when I’m functional distress me more than the ones when I’m not?

The lights are flickering. Is that you?

Grasping at straws. Straws to keep me going. To keep me sane now that I understand what people mean when they say that we’re here until we’re not.

Flicker.

I’ll do whatever it takes to get your attention.

It’s 3AM and I’m supposed to be meditating but I’m here talking to you instead because for a second I forgot you were dead and that second will eat at me for the rest of the week.

Forgetting is followed by relentless remembering. It’s a way of atoning and it’s a vicious cycle and why can’t I make you cookies anymore?