Who is there
when the lights go out
and the cold knocks on your window
to hold you?
Who lets you know
you’re safe when your own lungs
are afraid to open
for fear of letting in a draft?
Who is there when they are so busy
and your life is so stagnant
and you don’t know how to say:
Who can pry open your mouth
when you have tied it with
black lace so pretty, so hurtful
and it looks like you’re smiling?
Who can reach down with their hands
to help you from the grave you’re digging
when all you manage to do
is flinch at the thought?
Because I’ve been very stressed lately, and so worried about my future and where it’s leading me right now, and because I feel like I have no one to really talk to, I’ve turned to my tarot cards for some help.
They tell me my sleep is only going to get worse with what’s weighing heavily on me (which scares me because I don’t want my insomnia to come back – I can at least get a few hours in and would like to keep it that way, thank you) and they’ve also told me a big change needs to happen, which also scares me. I don’t know what kind of change and I actually didn’t ask about what that might be, probably just too scared of what the answer might be if I get one, so instead I asked if I should talk to someone to try to get some help.
The cards have said that being alone and trying to work on my own with this will come to no good, so I asked if I should call my mother. I’m afraid she would be disappointed in how I’m feeling and how unhappy I am with my job and that I don’t want this stable, really lucky job I have. But they told me I should. They were basically screaming positivity about that question.
But she didn’t answer the phone. I think she might call me later, I don’t know. I wanted to wait for the weekend so I’d have time and she’d have time (and neither one of us would be so tired, like we usually are after work) but I’m faltering so much that it scares me. My breath wells up in my throat and my heartbeat stutters when I think about how I’m feeling for too long. I am so unhappy and so terribly scared of life. I don’t want this, and I don’t know what to do because I don’t want anything else, either.
Except to write, I must include that. But I feel like that want is futile and insignificant and an impossible destination because I don’t have enough conviction to actually get anywhere with it.
I don’t know if I can be unhappy with my job for my whole life, just to have money. But I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what my options are, if I even have any.
I’m not so good at coping.
My chest is an open sucking wound. My head is filled with tick-ticking timers. I’m trying not to shake from the pressure I’m under, but I can’t help but waver. My heart is stuttering in its cavity and, please, can I get some help?
Trying to focus on breathing but all of my air comes in gasps. Life hits me like a wave and I’m being swallowed up in its depths. My fingers have fallen beneath the surface and I have no strength to get myself once again afloat. And, again, I ask please, can someone help?
I hate this thing called life and I’m not so sure I’m any good at it. But how can I stop when it’s unstoppable without a force halting it?
So far there are assumed days stretched out before me and – I can’t breath – it seems impossible. A trek in the dessert without any water; a jump in the deep end of the pool without knowing how to swim.
And how can I stray from the planned out path when there are no others laid out? There are no dirt roads to take, there are no trails only covered with leaves. Blank space and hard bricks that tell me where to go. But how can I step when I find no comfort in the cool stone? How can I continue when each step pulls me further down in this wide fear?
I’m scared of the water; I’m so scared of downing.
There are no more mirrors in the house, are there? I know how much you can’t stand the sight of yourself any more. Any time you look at yourself all you can see is his face staring back at you. And all you can feel is his hands on you.
And you wear long sleeves, jeans. Even when it’s hot and miserable out. Even when you’re sticky and so uncomfortable, you know you couldn’t bear to wear anything less. Maybe you get a few crazy looks because of it, but no one ever asks, do they? So you keep at it. It works for you, so you think. You’re coping, right?
But you can hardly sleep at night; he haunts your dreams to the very crevice. You cry in the shower because that’s the worst reminder. You can hardly laugh with your friends anymore because you don’t feel like you deserve to be happy. You don’t feel like you deserve to be a human anymore. Tell me, do the tears come as easy as the wind seems to blow?
As sleep gets harder and harder to get, it’s becoming more of a chore to do anything now. Sustenance hardly sits in your stomach for more than a few minutes. The color has drained from your skin and your eyes seem to have lost their shine. And contact with people? People make you sick. They would never understand. They probably wouldn’t even believe you.
Are you still coping? Are you still making it day to day? Or are you tearing at the seams of the days to try to get to the next one as though if enough of them go by you’ll end up being fine?
Do you ever feel like calling out for someone? Like maybe, maybe you should tell someone? You should. They wouldn’t understand, you think? How could they give you a chance if you never give them a chance? How could they have the gamble of understanding if you never let them know? Just the right person, that’s all it takes.
Isn’t it worth it? Wouldn’t it be worth not having to be so hot all the time? Wouldn’t the sleep and the peaceful showers be worth it? Not crying every time you’re alone because all you can remember is that monster? Wouldn’t it be worth it, not having it constantly on your mind?
Wouldn’t it be worth it to feel okay for once?