this time
May 23, 2011
I was reunited with an old friend, someone I met in 2005, someone who lived three doors down from me on the sixth floor. A man tickled my feet and I couldn’t stop laughing. Do you want me to stop? No. Our hands and feet were beautiful as we stood outside in the warm sun and stared downward, upward, all around. We fixed our hair and faces and bodies and everything was perfect as we walked outside in the foggy mist, down the hill, heading downtown. We smiled for pictures and struggled to time them in the correct ways, but laughed when we saw the blurry results. You are better at looking sad than I am, she said. For a minute I was scared of the next four minutes and thirty-seven seconds but then everything was okay, we were still here in this moment on this bed smiling and posing. I realized that you were all wrong for me, you were wrong for any any any any any person with feelings and baggage and a past and emotions and a heart and a desire to be healthy and a desire to change and a desire to be permanently better. And at the same time you were right for my heart when I couldn’t quite find it. I couldn’t be a robot for you and I will never apologize for feeling betrayed hurt broken sad angry. I was not wrong, the whole situation was wrong and I didn’t get out until it was much too late. I smile when I think about certain things, like the time you drove 500 miles because I was alone and needed help. None of this will ever be forgotten, not the best, not the worst. I want to forget sometimes, I want to forget everything, erase everything in my head and float away into the distance, not thinking of anyone, not knowing anyone, not feeling anything. And I want to cry and never stop until everything is out, until everything has rained upon the earth and given the dead life again. When you feel lost, nothing is ever okay. Your heart is in a constant state of panic and there is always something stabbing at it from every angle, ripping it apart into a million pieces, and there is nothing you can do to save what was once a beautiful organ filled with love hope and acceptance. There is a constant lump in your throat that won’t disappear, won’t lessen, won’t listen to any of your pleading desperation. And sometimes, like the moment where you go to turn the faucet on and you spot a purple bruise on your forearm, you are reminded of the most specifically painful moments that mark the insignificance of your life. You never stop crying, even when you’re exhausted, cant see anymore, are bleeding from laying on a glass-covered floor, ripping hair out of your head, begging to be taken away.
