Weight, it’s the only thing I can think of when it comes to sadness. So sad you feel as if people are dancing on your chest, listening to music uniquely their own. They mock you and they crush you, as they use you and you cannot enjoy their precious moves or the twists and turns of the melodies inside their heads. It’s hard to think about these moving people and the way my ribs feel like they are shrinking against my lungs that seem determined to grow. I cannot think about the battle zone, the war that wages because of this sick soul. So I pull off my clothes and exchange them for the softest fleeces of the sweatpants and sweatshirts we don’t wear because we care too much about what the others say.
I lay in bed and try not to think about the constant flow of words in my head. It is never his words that haunt me the most. Of course, they make their appearances- whispers of feelings that never match what he feels the next day. He wants limitless options, I can never figure out what I want. I guess, what haunts me the most is the words I left unsaid, and they create homes inside my head, paving their way into every dream, every thought of every moment, as if I already couldn’t forgive myself. I think the very next thing I need to learn is why I find things so hard to let go.
But even with the thinking, and the breathing and the play-acting at normalcy I am so sad I cannot breathe. The dancers on my chest are angry, they are stomping on me now. They are yelling things I cannot hear but know they are saying. What a waste sadness is. The thoughts pile up until I finally break and release them in the salty tears that I am inherently embarrassed of, although they are quiet beautiful. They are rain and wind, they are endless waterfalls. Every picture of nature can be found in tears, at least I think. Humans in some rare form of expression. I don’t think about the tears because then I think about the weight and the weight leads to the words. And of course, the words lead back to you and you leaving.
This is not working, of course. I try to write but I cannot see not the ink on the paper or the words on the computer screen, because I am still crying in that ugly no one should have to witness this kind of way. I eat, I do laundry, I draw stick figures and stick it to my now empty fridge to pretend that there are children who love me. I pile pillows into my bed so that I can pretend I am not alone, I think about if I would want to live in a world where pillows hug back. I eventually decide that would be too creepy.
I wallow until I’ve graduated to terrible movies and reality television. Until I can keep meals down, until eating bars and bars of dark chocolate can be rationalized. I wallow until I can see the shoes I am tying, until I even manage to put on shoes. I cry loudly and softly. I break down buying more ice cream in the grocery store. I think that’s embarrassing, but I am also wearing dirty clothes and my face is blotchy, so I cannot care what the others think.
I cry until the thoughts of you make more sense. Until the words that link you to leaving do not also link to the end of my happiness as we know it. I cry until thinking is a sanctioned activity. I cry until I can see clearer. You are not here.
You are not here and I can almost breathe. I am getting somewhere, alone.