If we’re being honest.

I’m exhausted. I’ve tried to write something here a handful of times but nothing is coming out. Its strange to think about, writing is my outlet. If my outlet doesn’t work in my favor then what do I do? What in the fuck do I do? I can’t pinpoint how I’m feeling. How aggravating. How frustrating. I could sleep for years.

I want to sleep for years.

There are moments that happen in life that make you unstable. I don’t care what anyone says, we all experience them. Things work out in a way that tie a billion knots in your head and make every path unmanageable, unimaginable, undesirable. Exhausting. You look down each one and every single time they look like headphones tangled, game console controllers intertwined. Each time, each one looks more unbearable than the last. Fuck knots. Fuck being forced to untie them. It’s never fun, its just simply draining.

I came across a friends final resting place by accident recently. It was a little startling considering I thought he was buried in a different town entirely. I tried to not be bothered, to not let on that I needed time to sit with him. I was with a different friend and she wasn’t fully aware of the situation. I imagined a wave, a strong one, truly powerful. I imagined it rolling in and pounding against my chest violently. I felt myself try harder to breathe. Every single draw in got caught in my throat and attempted to choke me, dry me out. I fought to keep my head above the crest.

Sitting in the grass for a moment or two, I told him quickly what I could about what had been going on. I filled him in silently and waited for some sort of reply. I don’t usually believe in things like that; signs and messages from the dead. I just wanted so badly to know that someone had heard my secrets finally. I wanted to know that even though he wasn’t around to physically comfort me and tell me to stop giving a fuck about everyone else, I wanted to know he was listening.

But nothing came. No animal emerged from the trees, no wind blew powerfully around the graves, the candle at the site didn’t go out, and I definitely didn’t hear any eerie, soft words that could or could not have been there. Nothing happened. And I remember going home disappointed I would expect some sort of show on my behalf. I was being selfish. Life isn’t a television show or dream world. People die and they don’t come back. The end is in fact the end.

My living friend walked back to my vehicle with me, we did so quietly, respectively as a man knelt beside a friend or family member. We exchanged some soft words here and there. I watched the man closely, admired how gentle and precise he was with his actions. His face, the way the expression just hung sadly on his skull caused my chest to cave. My lungs worked harder to expand. Loneliness is a very palpable thing. You can make each and every bit out all over a human beings face.

I dwelled on this. My negligence led me to this point. Had I paid attention, had I listened, had I bothered to get over myself and try to visit him- if I just made the effort to overcome my emotions instead of burying them behind other things that were still present and looming then I would have known he was lying where I came across his marker.

I told myself I would stop doing this. I would stop pushing the bad things away like that would fix anything for me in the end…

My grandfather is rolling through what could possibly be the beginnings of Alzheimer’s. He could also just be lacking oxygen to his brain because he has sleep apnea he refuses to treat. He doesn’t like the machine they make him use and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either. But I like him alive and I want to tell him that. I just don’t know how without being so blunt. I want him home and I want him alive.

I want him to grow old with me. I want to recall stories of Christmas’ at his home in Manchester. The home with the coin room where he spent so much time. At home where we crowded in the room with the giant TV. At home where the dining table was never used for actual eating but instead a place to decorate around the holidays. Home where I eventually helped him sell his belongings every Saturday until he left for Florida. Home where I inherited belongings that I hide away now, afraid that the cat may break them.

I know its selfish but if he’s going to pass away, if he’s going to forget everything, if he’s going to need to be reminded of good things every day until he leaves us then I want to be with him. I want to remind him. I don’t want him to forget me. The thought makes me wretch and squirm. It makes me sob uncontrollably. He’s not dying, he’s forgetting. He’s forgetting until he dies.

We’re all dying and it fucking sucks.

And then there’s the one choosing to slowly kill herself. The one I grew up with. The one that was constantly compared to me to feel bad about herself when she did something wrong. The one that was taught that she was bad because she didn’t behave like me. The one that would sing songs with my pepere and I, Saturday mornings at the kitchen table. Banging on the table top. Waking the house. The one that I eventually wasn’t allowed to hang out with. The one I got into trouble with. My first best friend.

Heroin is a fucking hell of a drug. So I hear.

I want to sleep for years. I want to wait for the waves to pass. I’m so full of anxiety I forget to eat at times. Or I just don’t want to. Autumn and winter are going to be difficult. That seasonal depression is a bit early. I’m listening to Amanda Palmer followed by Andrew W.K. just so I don’t drive the car in my head off the road.

I’m chain smoking to keep myself together. Pulling my lungs apart in the process. I need to read the Bell Jar again.

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