A Little More Or Less

I think it’s 5:00 pm. My person just told me. He’s holding me while I scream and beg for him to be lying. I repeat the word “no” as if that will somehow reverse everything. My chest feels tight, like I crawled inside my rib cage and refuse to leave. My entire body is shaking. My voice is hoarse. He pulls me tighter as if afraid I’ll break and fall apart if he lets me go. I might. He apologizes for something he didn’t do. I want to blackout, but I can’t.

I think it’s 7:00 pm. My person lets my mom know that I’m informed and I’m breathing normally again. I tell my boss via text. I call my mom. We discuss specifics through muffled sniffles and silent tears. We brace our walls of strength for each other and ourselves. We say goodbye; our “I love you’s” carry more weight today. I tell my person we need to go to the store. I fix my makeup on the floor as best i can. My eyes won’t stop leaking. He sits behind me and brushes my hair. Can this really be happening?

I think is midnight. My person is fast asleep and I’m pacing the room. I bet my parents’ house is far too quiet tonight. My parents’ house. Do I say my mom’s house now? My eyes are faucets with a permanent drip. My body is a house caught in a blizzard, my faucets are trying to keep me from freezing up. Oh, I’m freezing, I guess. I haven’t known what I was since I got home. I can’t believe she found him. I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe.

I think it’s 9:00 am. What day of the week is it? It’s only Thursday? I thought it was at least Saturday. My person makes breakfast and coffee. My eyes still have leaks. A drop falls into my coffee; I stare at it. Without a word, he picks it up, takes it into the kitchen, and brings me a new cup. I only eat two bites of breakfast. I fold laundry while we watch Queer Eye. He jokes that I look like a hobo. I ask what day it is again.

It’s 1:30 pm. I drive to therapy. I don’t have makeup on because I don’t see the point. My car is packed and I’m ready to leave after my appointment. I think I should see my therapist. Is that selfish of me? Should I have left earlier? These roads are packed. I hope everyone else is having a good day. I don’t really remember leaving the house. I’ve texted everyone that needs to know, right?

It’s 5:00 pm. I’m halfway to my parents’ house to see my mom. I bought groceries and food and her favorite snacks. I call her. We talk more details, specifics, people I’ll see this weekend. I’m thankful for a small family today. She sounds hollow. I feel hollow. We conceal tears behind carefully chosen words. She says my baby nephew asked for his Pop-pop today. I lose it. She didn’t know I had to pull over just to breathe.

It’s about 9:00 pm. I’ve made dinner for her. We’re watching a true crime show. I’m curled up in his favorite chair. I don’t really know what’s happening in this show, I can’t keep track of it. She asks if I want the flag they are going to send for him. I make sure she doesn’t want it before saying yes. She asks if there is anything of his that I want. I remind her of the guitar I learned to play on, the one he would teach me on. She agrees that it should go to me and mentions that he would have chosen that, too. I’m thankful she can’t see the leak on one side of my face from my eye faucets. The house is far too quiet.

It’s 3:00 am or so. When I’m here, I usually wake up around this time to the ice maker in the kitchen spitting out cubes into an old man’s glass. I’d hear him open the fridge door, grab some tea, pour it in his glass, then close it back. The shuffle of feet back to his room would be an indication to go back to sleep. Today, I wake up to nothing. The house is far too quiet. I wait, slightly disoriented from shock and exhaustion. Still nothing. My face leaks again. I crawl back inside my ribcage and attempt to fall asleep.

I think about the anger I carry with me like a tattoo, something that never changes but ever increases in it’s permanence. I think about how I’ve been jaded and broken enough to believe happiness is no longer a possibility. I think about how dark the days are, and just how many of those dark days are in a week, and how many of those dark weeks are in a month, and how many dark months are in a year. I think about the pain, from illness and trauma, from illness derived from trauma. I think about the sadness of what it is to live a life so cut off from others as to not get hurt again and again that I barely remember how to love at all.