|5 minute read|
“I also have a bad habit of making things more special than they are,” she says to me as we stare out of her windshield. Not what I wanted to hear, but the truth I needed to accept, maybe. The tears stains on my cheek, white trails of foundation to my chin. I keep my head down so people won’t notice how puffy my eyes are or the fact that half of my mascara has disappeared. I wanted my head to feel empty, not to have a single thought, or the possibility of one springing in my head. Like the metal cage they use to stir the bingo numbers, just completely vacant. After I’ve dumped my brain, I want to carve the inside of my skull, a hot knife to wax as it sheds the layers of my discernment, my disenchantments, my diluted thoughts. My hollow head will be smooth, and maybe I’ll know peace again. Cutting away the parts of my mind that keep me up at night, that replay at random times and make my heart skip. The arms race of my psyche, what can stop the turmoil first? Carved wax, no bingo numbers, bad habits.
I lay in my parents bed and watch monsters inc because I feel like a child. I feel like a child who was just told no to the candy bar I picked up on the way to check out, or the extra toy I had to have. I’m mid temper tantrum, I’m mid meltdown. And to be a kid, it's easier, more acceptable to be confused by your own feelings. You don’t know what it is to yearn when you’re five. Or perhaps you do, but it’s lumped in with the rest of the confusions of childhood, hiding until the time is right to feel angst. It’s easier to be upset when you’re a child because there’s someone within arms reach for comfort. I pretended like nothing was wrong out of necessity, like the words I just read were words with no meaning, transcribed to mean nothing in particular, nothing at all. Like the fortune inside a cookie you pick up and read for a few seconds, and never really think of again. The only person I wanted to be was natalie from a few hours ago when this was unbeknownst to me. The sweet taste of not knowing. But I smiled and moved on, but in my head I swirled these words around until they didn’t make my stomach drop anymore. For better or for worse?
This most primal feeling, one can’t hide and nobody can escape it. To live a life without ever feeling this way seems like that of a fairy tale. To rip a flower straight from the root. A white-knuckle grip to crush the petals, gritty in the folds of the hand, ruined, bent, and broken within a matter of a second. To step on something by accident, fallen to the floor without knowing. Under the weight, under the foot, smashed into pieces, shock waves up the leg. Revealed in the carpet, unable to be repaired. To knock something over, a thing of meaning. A loose hand, a jolting elbow, a speedy turn of the body. Before the action is processed, it’s already gone, laying beneath you as just a memory of how it used to be, how it used to stand, untouched and perfect. The feeling of knowing it won’t be the same, but you know you’ll pretend that it will be. The pit in your stomach, welcoming the shattered pieces.
Every thought I have, I type into the google search bar. But I'm not searching for answers, I’m searching for empathy. Has anyone out there felt these same feelings? Has anyone out there sat on a pile of laundry, blinking slowly wondering how long it will take to pull out of this funk? And I know I’m not alone, it’s not a cliche for nothing, but to shout into the void and hear no echoes is a discouraging place to be. “This used to be so special, how to make it special again?” “How to replace something special?” “Something special near me” “Did I read too much into this, or was it actually special” “You’re special to me, am I special to you?”
I’ll keep blinking slowly tonight, but I’ll only give myself the night. The first dusk of September and I feel the cold already on it’s way. Spare me winter, I know what it’s like to be lonesome. In the bathroom stall, in my car, in my room, off the stage where I attempt to fathom all at once. The type of misery that feels disgusting to feel. A slick coast of ash over the skin, rubbing raw the flesh beneath. The type worth apologizing for. Inhabited in the pit of my stomach, in the dark of my eyes, in my empty head, blinking slowly with me.
But it still feels pathetic to have this level of self-loathing even though in the same breath it is the scratch that needs itching. As I write this, my cat jumps on my bed with her favorite toy and lays beside my feet. And my friend sends a text checking in. And I do love monsters inc. And I had two slices of new york style pizza for dinner with a bottle of diet coke. And I will have a glass of wine in my hot shower where I will carefully queue songs that remind me that I am not the only person in the world to ever feel such a dreadful thing. This is what is special. This is what makes this feeling easier to experience. The things that make it not so bad, the empathy of humanity. My feelings, get to live on this page forever, I no longer need to house them within my space, and that is a special relief. Yet, to feel at all is such a special thing. To feel intensely is a special thing. To have so much to care about, the great deal of it all, is a special thing. At times I feel like it’s a curse, to feel so much, but what a special virtue to experience, the complexities of being human.
feel and be seen
you are special to me,
natalie <3
