Friday, October 14, 2011

It's been a long week

A week of starting most of my days at 4:00 and working till noon,
and crashing in bed till late afternoon,
or not crashing because I don't have time,
then a shower before classes or supper or whatever I have to be conscious and alive for in the evening,
and weird eating times
and arranging and rearranging my room,
and sleeping in the empty room,

and generally a halfhearted, somewhat subconscious effort to fill the void that can't be filled.
A gnawing, inside craving for things not to change,
and everything within me rushes to do everything within my power to escape the pain of reality and pushes me to the point of exhaustion.
And I try to get to the point where I can't feel it.

And all that happens is that I get to that point where I'm sure I won't feel it, and it all crashes in on me in one enormous avalanche of pain and sorrow and missing.

Before that it's just a cavernous emptiness that hollows out this broken heart.

Just this hollow, blurring emptiness,

that floods my weary soul,

and I miss hearing his loud music blasting in the room beside mine,
and I miss his sarcastic comments at the supper table,
and I miss him making me laugh like no one else could,
and I miss the way he comes down the stairs,
and I miss his singing songs that I love (because he listened to them first) at the top of his lungs,
and everything I loved, everything I thought I hated,
I miss everything about him.

And at the end of the day, I can crawl under my warm covers and I don't have to fight anymore. I can just let go and cry. And that feels good. Just let go of anything I can, just feel the pain again. The pain I can hold in my hands and cry for. The emptiness just settles in, leaving me lost and cold and so alone.

So I play Phil Collins Everyday everyday, so loud, on his speakers, in his room.

I didn't expect the hole to be this huge, this gaping.

I didn't expect that the change would rip me apart so.

You can tell me it will, in the end, be all right. Honestly that's comforting, and I won't think less of you for telling me that. You can tell me his leaving is, in the end, all for the best. Honestly that's what I've been telling myself all along, and I do believe it.

But in the end, I still miss him more than anyone will ever quite understand,
and nothing you say will change the fact that he's gone,
and I honestly don't know when I will see him again.

Nothing you say will take away the emptiness.
Eventually the pain will fade away, probably sooner than I want,
and always life will go on,
and always 'everything will be all right'.

Everything is all right.

It's all the way it's meant to be.

But that doesn't change how much it hurts.


  1. I will come sit on your bed and cry with you: not because I feel exactly the same way about J.'s leaving (I will miss him greatly, but that would be a little weird), but because I feel exactly the same about the feeling in general. And because I'm the best empathizer I've ever met. And because I love you.

  2. thanks, love. i love you back -- you're one of my favorite people in all my life, seriously.