She said to write. I imagine the implication is to do so honestly.
She said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s out of order, just get it out.” I told her I couldn’t. That I’d just sit there. That I wouldn’t know where to start. That it’s too much. That it’s stupid.
But she said to write. So I’m writing. I will wax poetic on my pathetic inability to function properly.
Music is impossible for me. I love to clean with loud music on that I’ll stop to dance to with the kids. I have so many fantastic memories of all of us dancing. Singing our hearts out. Laughing, wiggling, twirling around each other. So here today, I try to be motivated. I turn the music on, and I just start falling to pieces.
Maybe this is why I don’t want to actually do anything. Because everything reminds me of him? Everything feels like salt in an open wound. Everything feels like a punch in the stomach, a knife in the heart. Even cleaning his bathroom.
Today, as I listened and cleaned, I sobbed. Like really, really sobbed. My ache came out in bursts of regret, in anger at myself for not loving him enough, for not being perfect. Anger at myself because I let him slip through my fingers.
I feel like this is something I should be over now. But he was my life? He was the only thing I had that made me remember me. He was my anchor. He remembered me before I became this. He remembered me when it was just the two of us. He remembered me when I was just a girl. He KNEW me. He KNEW me. He was one of my best friends…
I get so mad at myself I could scream. Remembering conversations we’d had together. I can’t change the past, but God, why do I have to feel it? And if I don’t feel it, doesn’t it mean that I’m a monster? Pretending that this doesn’t feel like someone is gutting me, is that really going to make everything better? “Doing it anyway”; doesn’t that make me turn to stone?
I slip back and forth into the past, into the present, into the future. I can’t stay put. I keep falling. I wish I could describe it. It’s like, I’m here, I’m here — and then suddenly I’m watching a movie of years ago, when he was just so little, and these movies, they play moments when he’s smiling, or crying, or talking, or dancing, or running, or riding his bike, or saying, “Mom!!!”
And then I start heaving, like really sobbing, because I feel like someone is ripping me apart. It’s unreasonable to assume that I can handle this. It’s unreasonable to take someone’s child away.
He left. He never stuck around. He lived his life and partied and didn’t visit or pay child support or raise him. He didn’t put in the sweat and the tears and the hours of work and effort. He didn’t teach him to tie his shoes or ride his bike or to go potty in the toilet. He didn’t teach him how to do the dishes or clean out the cat litter. He didn’t teach him how to read or run or play guitar or anything. He didn’t do any of it.
And I get mad at myself for that reaction. Because that reaction is selfish and angry, and not at all what I should be indulging in, but it’s still there goddammit. It’s still there.
Sometimes I feel like this is something that can leak out of me, if I just knew how to drain it properly. Like it’s this swelling, this puss, filling me up, and making me hurt and feel sick, and if I don’t get rid of it, if I don’t dispose of it properly, it will make me sick. And could make me die.
I read that it’s possible to die of a broken heart. That that’s a real legit thing. That what can happen is that a really stressful event can cause your heart to damage because it’s so traumatized by whatever’s happened. And then I thought, “Oh my god. I’m dying of a broken heart.” Because I am. I’m dying of a broken heart.
The only thing I can imagine this could be compared to is the death of a child. Because he’s gone. And it’s not the same, and it’ll never be the same ever again. And so I’m dying of a broken heart.
There. I wrote. And it’s out of order and messy and gross and I won’t reread it or correct it and haven’t stopped crying the entire time I wrote it. I have been crying for hours. When will I stop crying? I didn’t even do this during any divorce. I didn’t do this when my parents divorced, or I divorced, or when I was going through all that bull shit in Hawaii. But I can’t stop now. It feels like death.
I feel the little girl inside of me, screaming, crying, begging for it to all stop. That littlegirl is so tired.