There’s a famous saying: Don’t go to bed early. Stay up and plot your revenge.
Such lies when it’s more like: Stay up tossing and turning. Seething in your own rage. Arguing with the “culprit” in your head. Logically but forcefully. Imagining the other person bowing down to your ultimate reason. Feeling hot fury course through your veins every time you think about them. Which is every second.
Tossing some more.
Balling up your fists in the effort to stay calm. And then giving up because you almost sliced open your palm with your own nails.
Silently whimpering with the pain of almost having stabbed your palm with your own nails. Feeling your blood boil once again as you think of them. Thinking of what they almost made you do to yourself.
Tearing up at the stupidity of it all.
Wishing you could just…sleep in peace forever.
She arranged her slippers and reminded me of her husband.
Last evening, she was using his walker because her legs were hurting and I was sad again.
This time, though, the tug at my heart strings was for her. She suddenly looked so frail and old and I wondered how many more moments we all have with her…
Tears sprang to my eyes but I held them back. I am good at that.
What I did was fill her jug and put it at the night stand, like Dad reminded me to. Held both her hands and helped her to her bed, ambling along slowly as she had ‘forgotten’ both her stick and walker outside.
Said a little prayer for her. Wrote a blog post.
Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.
Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
You don’t feel like talking to me. No problem.
I don’t mind. Not really. Not anymore.
It’s your life; you’re free to choose who you talk to.Or not talk to. I, on the other hand, don’t seem to have a choice in this matter. And so, I can only grieve.
Because if I had to, I wouldn’t make this choice. Unless I had a damn good reason. Maybe even not then.
Little by little, though, I realize I do have a choice: not waiting around on you.
Works for me. I don’t have time to be miserable any way.
My best friend. My worst enemy. I love them. I hate them.
There is no escape.
I can use them to express myself. Anything I want to say; everything I want to say. So cathartic. So helpful. So magical. They become the antidote, helping me suck the poison out of my veins, letting me breath anew.
Once they are out though, the toothpaste does not go back into the tube. Even if no one else reads them, I give full form to ideas that were only half-baked. Then, there is no forgetting.
There is no escape.
I opened my mouth to scream, both as a warning and in fear but nothing came out.
It was fun for a while but then the scene changed. Drastically. My friend was in danger and there seemed to be nothing I could do about it. Except open my mouth to scream, but nothing would come out.
It was a hoarse whisper at most. No one could hear me. Trying to talk didn’t work. My heart was pounding in my throat and didn’t let me talk. My friend was in danger and I couldn’t even say a word.
At the same time, I was painfully aware that it was only a dream. Only a dream, I told my dream-self. It is only a dream.
Yet the fear was real; very real and very solid. All I managed to do was to run about. I couldn’t scream to call anyone’s attention to my friend’s plight. Or mine…
I did eventually wake up. I just couldn’t scream.
Some days, a face is all the catharsis you need.
You barely feature in their life. You might not have seen each other in a really long time. Or been in touch properly. Or talked lately.
But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that you meet for a couple of hours after a really long time. It doesn’t matter that you are in a group situation. It doesn’t matter what you do when you get together. It doesn’t matter what you talk about.
The fact that they are willing to see your face, spend some time with you, hold a conversation with you, not look or sound repulsed, laugh at your stupid jokes…
Well, it just proves that they are absolute gems, and without even being aware of the fact, they help you. And they make up for all the people who – to put it politely – don’t or for whom you just don’t seem to exist (anymore, suddenly).
A thousand friggin’ times over.
“So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light.”
~Ghosts That We Knew by Mumford & Sons
And you just know that it is going to be alright. It won’t be easy but it would be alright.
Paul Westerberg says:
Although, my experience when I’ve been depressed, not only am I too depressed to sit down and write a song, I’m too depressed to pick up my feet. So if you can at least write about it, you’re halfway away from it.
I am not depressed but I don’t even want to think about writing what’s on my mind right now. Writing is definitely cathartic, but getting the words on the screen is hard.
You have to think about whatever situation is bothering you. Analyse it from different angles. Find the best one to explain it to your reader (with reference to writing on a blog). Find the angle that is consistent with the train of thought in your head. Have good grammar. No spelling errors. Make it presentable.
And it all goes downhill from here.
Catharsis aside, it just becomes another project that you can’t do. Can’t finish. A constant reminder of one more thing that you suck at. One more thing to fail at.
No more writing.