The Crypt: Level 1

It’s been a year now.
I want to say, to nobody, how I feel.
I’m tired of holding back to spare others’ time or attention. This is what I am; heavy. I have a tough time – mentally, physically, financially, contextually.
It is not easy to motivate oneself with a list like this.
There’s a scene in Scrubs where Carla finally opens up after JD’s coaxing, and her sharing her feels melts his face off.
I tried to talk about my ex, B.
Y’know, saying I shouldn’t be worried about it so long after doesn’t change the fact that I do. Do you think I don’t believe this too? Can you not see that it hurts me because I know it shouldn’t hurt me to this day, yet it still bloody well does?
Thank you for making me feel worse.
Also, now I’m insecure about talking about the things that affect me – lest the person I try to talk to doesn’t want to hear about it.
It isn’t about them, surely? If they cared, they’d care enough to listen when I need them to?
Vice Versa, obviously?
How long is it supposed to take to stop being hurt by choosing a person for life and having them hurt you so, so much?
I don’t miss him.* I love him deeply, but I’m not in love with him.*
What hurts, is how much it hurt – the disappointment, the abandonment, the disregard of communication.
What hurts is the hurt.
How long does it take to stop hurting?
I’m in so much goddamn pain.
I just need to say it.
I’m so sore. All the time.
I can’t fully feel my leg.
I found out three weeks ago. This fact still hurts. I’m still angry. I still haven’t fully accepted it yet.
How long does it take to accept that your life will never be the same again?
That your body is broken, and may break more?
How long?
I lost my flat; had to move into the family house.
Walked away from my would-be husband – who left me in crippling debt.
I surrendered my business; cut my income by 13k gross.
I lost my dog.
I lost my next job.
I put on weight.
I got diagnosed with mental illness.
A family member tried to kill themself – and it broke me. I know what it takes to get there. I know how you have to feel.
I lost my car in a crash that could have killed me, and holy shit should have based on the impact (miracle); but did damage my spine.
I now have neuropathy with no known cause, and good heavens did they look. Nine tests, including the most extensive blood work I’ve ever done and you know what we know?
I have a very damaged nerve. The rest of them aren’t doing that great either. No known cause yet, but hey – I definitely don’t have a tumour in the right side of my brain or syphilis.
Winning.
This all happened in a godforsaken year.
How long are you willing to give me to heal?
How long should it take?
How long can I share the introspect and express my pain before you decide you’re sick of hearing about it?
I want to bury it too. I want to bury it all and not think about any of it again.
I will. I absolutely will.
But I am gonna feel it until it breaks me, so that when I put this motherload of all pain in that box it doesn’t hurt anymore.
So that when I open it, years later, it ain’t gonna even tickle a teeny bit.
I will not pretend I’m not sore.
I feel alone. I feel annoying. I feel like an emotional drain. I feel ugly. Unwanted. Undesirable. Too complex. Too heavy. Too emotional. Too expressive. Too honest. I feel like I should shut the fuck up because everyone is tired of me. I also feel too rough, and yes, I do swear a lot.
I am so sore.
I need to float on a lake, crouch under a waterfall, or climb a tree.
I need to heal. It takes time. Sometimes, it takes a long time.
I’m not negative, y’know – when I talk about these things.
Show me where I said something negative?
“I can’t do it”?
“I’m never going to love again”?
“I am without value”?
NOWHERE – BECAUSE ACKNOWLEDGING YOUR CONTEXT AND HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT YOURSELF DOES NOT EQUATE TO BEING BROKEN BY IT OR BEING IT.
I can do it. This isn’t it.
When the earth is done wiping out a fraction of the population, I’m gonna kill it. I’m gonna smash it.
Life, I mean.
I don’t intend to stay in this rut.
I just know I’m in one.
I know my value.
Even with my mutilated nose and dead leg, somebody will want me. There are too many middle-aged brown men on social media. I know I’m one, “hey bby” away from my next marriage. I got this. I’m fertile.
I will never not be able to love. I bleed it. I don’t hate a soul.
I keep all my love – it’s mine. It has nothing to do with anyone else.
Just give me some goddamned time.
There’s a lot of crap in my Crypt.
The last year just doesn’t belong there yet.

Artwork: Troy Poultney (@erthing33)

*Go to May 25th to see me eat my words.

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