It’s a Saturday in the middle of March and once again, you have left me. Left me to my own devices. And, while I wait for the kettle to boil and my tea to steep, I cannot help but think of how you slammed the car into a hedge on a small road in the countryside because I said the wrong thing, used the so-called wrong words. You told me sometimes some people need shaking, and next time we’ll drive right through the hedge. Your words haunt me because they reveal to me the depth of your capacity for evil and violence. And I wonder, just what am I waiting for? And I wonder, just what am I still doing here?
You left. You just left. Almost all the time. As soon as you reached an emotional obstacle, you just booked it. It was that easy for you, was it? Why, I wonder? Why? Why did you always remove yourself from me, from our home, as your first line of defense? Because you thought to punish me, I suppose, by removing yourself, leaving me and my insatiable hunger for absolution. I would have burned away the world without a thought, to feel yours lips passionately pressed against mine. Did you know that each time you left me I grieved? That, these times without you, I felt the weight of homelessness, in the home we shared?
For so long, I made my home inside you, inside your heart and mind. And there, without you, the immensity of the silence and solitude swallowed all sound, movement and light. And, so, I remained frozen, in footsteps untaken … our footsteps, each moment that stepped into me completely resembling the previous one. I lived inside the emptiness of your absence, unwilling to find my way out. That enormous landscape, known as mourning, kept me anchored to you. Still, I could not stand it, that razor sharp loneliness. I would have rather died than leave you.
It’s Good Friday. I have no idea where you are. You’ve taken everything with you. Every phone, every computer, and even the internet. Yes, you’ve even taken the internet. And I feel like you’ve left me one too many times. I cannot live like this. Yet, I’m locked into my life with you, cannot tear myself away from you, for fear that would mean the end. The end of what? I don’t know, really. Just, the end. And so, I’ve dragged myself out of our flat, motivated by a strong urge to connect with some other human being, someone who might give me some kind of reason not to kill myself, because I certainly cannot think of any right now, today. I find a charity shop open and purchase a telephone for £2 ~ just the amount of money I had remaining. Once I get home I plug the phone into the wall, set it on the coffee table in front of me, beside the sharpest knife I could find and a nearly full bottle of Celexa anti-depressant pills. Suddenly a gigantic fear seizes me. Fear that I will survive my attempt to take my life. Yes, fear that I will live. I want to feel my fear as a distant thing ~ a hammering heart, a squeezed chest ~ and not something that exists in my mind. My sanity feels as thin and fragile as newly formed ice.
On that day, I felt like a living breathing contradiction in every sense of the word. An understatement, for sure. I felt paranoid, wondered who I could believe. I mostly wondered, though, if I could believe myself and the information my senses provided to me. I felt like an emotional burn victim. I felt like I had no emotional skin. So many feelings swirled all around me, swept me into their vortices. I felt. And so many times just wished I could stop feeling.
I thought of myself as unworthy, bad, all wrong. And when the pain swept over me, it didn’t merely pass through me, it possessed me. I felt unreal. I wondered where my Self had gone to and if I, indeed, had ever really known or faced this Self. I felt like I needed to apologize for my Self. When the pain took hold, like some virulent demon, I could not consider the past nor any prospects for the future. The present ~ in all its searing sorrow ~ occluded my vision, like a blindfold. Make it stop, I’d whisper to myself, just make the pain demon go away. Please, Mark … come back to me.