And waiting to see what happens. Will I pick my shoe up off the floor, or will I let the other one drop? What I really want is for someone to come along and help me put my shoe back on, maybe even pull me up off the table and make me take a few steps. I need help. I need someone to be here. I need someone to ask me the right questions and push me to give the real answers and to be here, with me, when I fall apart.
I keep waiting for something. Waiting for the next little good thing. Waiting for this person to visit or that person to write or for some little task to be accomplished. Thinking it will help. Thinking it will change me. Thinking that the pain is going to go away. It doesn't go anywhere. It's always here. Always. It won't leave. I can't remember what it feels like to be happy. I can't remember what it feels like to not know that I would wake up the next day, or the day after next, feeling like my soul was being torn from an open wound in my chest. How's that for emo? Shit. Why didn't I get this over with when I was a teenager? Not age appropriate at all.
I remember one year... I think it was my seventh birthday, all I wanted was for my dad to be home. I didn't care about a party, or gifts, or cake. All I wanted was for him to spend the entire day with us. Alright, that's a lie... I also wanted him to wear his white dress pants and white and grey plaid shirt so that we would match, and I would possibly feel as happy as I appear to be in that photo taken back when I was four or five, at the Ijaz's during one of those sweet summer barbecues. But hey. I was seven. I didn't understand things like seasonal clothing, or middle-aged men letting themselves go, or the inappropriateness of white pants in most situations.
Or heartbreak. Dad went to the store that day.
I feel like I'm climbing up a mountain of sand that just keeps rising. It's near impossible to get my footing, and every time I sink down to my knees, exhausted and disheartened, I look up to see tonnes. Millions of years of life, bones and shells and god knows what, reduced to dust and piled before me. Impossible to sift through. Impossible to climb over. Waiting for the next warm breeze to come along so it can fall, cascading over itself, rushing to engulf me, warm from the sun, heavy as it buries me.
Some days I can't help but want to give up. Give in to the misery inside me. Sink down, close off, stop struggling against it. It's just. so. tiring.
I feel hopeless. Please help me.
