I’m sorry I didn’t write on Thursday. Really sorry.
It’s one of those little things that doesn’t seem like such a big deal, but managing to stick to a schedule that I’ve set myself has always felt like a huge accomplishment, especially when things aren’t going as planned. Last week, when my mouth ached and I was tired, and feeling sorry for myself, I posted stories that had been sitting on my harddrive. Ones that I liked enough to send to you.
To show someone.
One Tuesday I was enraged enough that I posted something about current events, though I might have chosen not to mention specifics, I hope there was little doubt as to the point I was trying to make. We should talk about the things that we’re passionate about, whether they be good or bad. Polite conversation is so hollow it is better to have a proper discourse.
But then my week happened.
I’m not angry or upset that I spent my a reasonable portion of my week in hospital sitting beside my friend’s bedside while she waited for surgery, but I’m so tired as a result. I’m tired because I spent hours sitting in a chair that wasn’t comfortable, hours being too aware of the things that were happening around me, hours trying to make her feel better when I didn’t know what to say.
The last one bothered me the most.
I wanted to make her feel better, but hospitals don’t hold good memories for me. Not only memories of my own discomfort, of sitting in a hospital bed with a cannula taking blood or a badly sprained ankle, but sitting by someone’s bedside watching them die. Even now writing this, I’m feeling emotional, and I think perhaps this week has been more exhausting than I thought it was.
On Wednesday night I came home at 12.30, having stayed longer than I intended, because my friend was in tears, panicked over the idea of being poked and prodded, and for some reason, my useless stories that I stumbled over, worried about what the doctors and nurses might think, were enough to help calm her. Maybe it was simply that there was someone else there. I know that if I was in the same place, I’d feel better knowing that I wasn’t alone.
Alone is so terrifying.
I also wrestled with the idea that I’d made some of her fears greater, my own fears of those situations leeching into her own anxiety and making it worse. There’s nothing I can do to change that but there’s a guilt I carry about it. Guilt because I struggle with these situations so I feel I never handle them well. I’ll consider every move I make for the next while, worried about having done something, worried about not doing it well enough.
It’s those moments that make it so that I couldn’t say to my therapist that Thursday should be our last session, because I worry about those moments, worry about worrying about them. No matter how far I come, I feel like these moments take me back to a much earlier time when it was all much more terrifying and for a brief second, I feel that fear again.
I sit at my computer and write to you, knowing that it’ll only take the wrong song to come on and I’ll be in tears, the barrier between composure and a breakdown paper thin at this moment.
I haven’t written anything since Tuesday and I have things I want to do. Things I need to do and I’m trying to look forward to them. To embrace them for what they are, but I’m really so tired. So tired that my dreams are a thin facsimile of reality, where I wake up in my bed, having just been in my living room.
Forgive my lateness.
I really need it.
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