Years away now. Years my life without you near. Years in solitude and just like that you came back into my life. No signs, no hunch. No sting in your gut trying to tell you this is the day. This is the day you’re going to again meet the love of your life. You got rid of him and now the universe is giving you a second chance.
What have I done? I set you free. I have set you free.
… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.
… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.
To me it’s the early mornings that lingered, longer than they should, when I groped and grabbed and nothing. It’s an empty bed, you weren’t there and I let you. I let you be alone, in another room, in the bathroom, the living room, sometimes in the basement, lying near the laundry pile, vomiting. It’s more practical there, you said. You grabbed a sheet, puked, and crawled to the washing machine and threw the wet sheet in. I would never know, for in the afternoon they would be minty fresh laundry. I’d just pick it up and went on with my day.
You never asked me how I felt. Lying there in the dark, I too, alone and torn. Desperate, frustrated, for you to share your pain. But it’s yours, not mine, you said. It’s not for me to take. I wished I had been more understanding than I already were. In my mind I would be more than a lover, I would be something closer, deeper, more meaningful than a companion. But it’s yours, and not mine to take. So I lay there sinking within a surge of my own pain.
Sometimes in the afternoon, when I slowly open the lid of your dryer, I forgot to breathe, for it was not yellow stain on the sheet, but dried up brownish blood. I tried not to wonder. Because it’s yours, and not mine to take.
i had a surgical procedure recently. i was going to be anesthetised, sure i’d love to be dead for few hours, sure, i’d feel nothing, sure but i knew it was going to be very, very painful once the drugs worn off, so i asked you, you who had lots of them thank you me, what did you do when you knew, did you give in to the pain, what did you think about when you’re in so much pain, where did you go?
you didn’t say but you told me you saw me in a meadow, wearing white, and that second you didn’t care about anything anymore.
how sad, how deafening the silence after that.
maybe, i thought, just maybe i’d think of you when i’m dying, i’d drown me in your blue ocean eyes and i’d forget everything, i’d have no care for the world anymore.
but when it stroke me, this immeasurable pain i’d never felt, i was nowhere thinking of you. i tried.
i tried to think about your eyes, i tried to picture Nantucket home, the cliff and the ocean, nothing. it was grave and i couldn’t find you anywhere even if i wanted to. i tried to think of you the same but you weren’t there.
they say tomorrow might be the waves i cannot see the sheer anticipation of what might have been we’ve grown so old from heartbreaks so young a dream we’re so vast a universe but no words to swarm in this existence hurts my skin it hurts more everytime it doesn’t bleed here in this dark place everything is shameful and unforgiven but there’s a rabbit hole down here and there’s you and i and the world disappears we need to be somewhere else but here we are, bloated up and shrunk down into an instagram post
You don’t know my name. This is the past. And us is just a butterfly effect that didn’t happen. We are apart and at peace, just as before your eyes met mine, before our hands brushed and our words hushed. Before our secrets born into judging eyes. This is before everything.
And I am telling you this so you will search for me no more.
a raft of hope floating at sea
but the water knows loneliness too well
and how you and i swim deep into changing currents
oh how we used to row row our boat roughly
to the unseen… and so i hurl my heart
i’d stay drowned so the water will feel me
and consume me, aren’t we all
liquids with cold cold hearts,
should we not come home already
dust to dust?
but the sun oh the sun comes
and how i long to bob out and float
and sway with the waves, they’ll find you
the wind whispers
what are we without the ocean?
who are we without this distance?
Let me tell you about time: it doesn’t heal, it goes on. It changes you into different people and when you are in a different place, you see different things -and if you’re lucky enough, you see things differently (you might write about it too).
And that is it. There’s nothing about healing has anything to do with how time stretches between you and your wounds. They will always be there to remind you where you’re coming from.
My book went live few hours ago and everytime it always come down to this feeling of helplessness in letting go. And that is the only healing I could ever get from writing it.
Life always, always, gets you caught off guard and I am spent.