Here I am nearly 30 and as lost as I'll ever be. Once again I didn't just lose a man, I lost a home, a community, and even an entire state this time. I can't even think to go back to Washington without winching right now.
The questions of what happened and how did it get this way have faded into the emptiness. I'm not asking anymore, just sinking. There is so much goodness and so much richness in my life. Each new opportunity seems like a trap to recrystallize my sense of self. This is who I AM. This is the way I AM. The I is crumbling rapidly. Too quickly to know where to go next or what my purpose is.
The rivers of pain run deep. If I follow them surly I will be consumed by an overwhelming sea of purposelessness. There are only so many letter I can write without sending. There are only so many days I can spend in bed waiting for the aching to stop. So this is what it's like to loose everything. It's all too familiar. I don't want to be strong anymore. I don't want to be "conscious." I want to feel what I feel and do whatever it is that the mood calls for.
I know I need to lift myself beyond these unfamiliar turquoise walls where I came to either run away or hide... still undecided. Why am I here? In a place where there are no friends to call closer. Where I walk the streets just to find no one knows me? I miss my home. But my home is gone. I didn't seem to like it much when I was there. But now that I've been asked to never come back, I want nothing more than to crawl into the prison of those walls again.
Who am I in this world? Today, is the first day that I haven't been overwhelmed with missing a man in a month. No, today I miss me, and all the while who I thought I was is dying. So even though I'm right here, reaching a hand out towards myself, there is nothing to hold onto. I'm turning to dust, and each part of me I try to hold, crumbles beneath the weight of my fingers. I look in the mirror and see a pretty girl staring at me and I don't what she wants. Her expectant gaze follows me, needy and unwilling.
And as I write, it's as though each sentence is being pulled out of my heart by a sharp tiny claw. As if, if I just write enough words there will be nothing left inside of me. I'll be empty... finally nothing left. No more stories about the life I lived well, or the life I could have lived, or who I am, or about what I've accomplished. This raw tiny claw scraping out these strings of words will surely let loose my blood. And if, by some twisted miracle, this pain doesn't kill me, I have no idea what's left. What could possibly be on the other side of this emptying?