Today I am not living. Today I am surviving. You will see claw marks from my home till the office. I don’t know why this happens, this will of mine to live, be successful, make a change, turns into a pumpkin. I know, though, that this unhappening of my being happens often because I see in my Journal on 29th of March the dragging of body, on 24th, on 18th, slumping of feet, 15th snarling; but not in as many words. Not for so many reasons. Different reasons. But similar magnitude. Small. But blown-up, occupying the whole attic, like a cloud I have kept in it.
I don’t carry it in bare size, I carry it in a proportion to the room. My therapist said I got it when I was a child, when I defined hope, presence, anger. Anxiety. I petted it in my then tiny attic. It would grow dark and angry by night, in the evening sun, it felt fine. It took up the whole space. In later years, I grew and the attic grew. But I was carrying the anxiety in its proportional magnitude- it’s weight, not its mass. Filled the room. Till the window threatened to burst open. So heavy.
So heavy like a borrowed tee-shirt, a headache pill, a bar of soap, advice, a misplaced pair of keys, fading train lights. Babies falling asleep in your arms a day before you leave, their heads on your arm so heavy. A grandmother’s come home soon heavy. Can you teach me how to use Skype? Heavy. My shoulders are hunched, and jokes on them heavy. The cloud in my attic is full. And heavy. It storms. Throws things around. That I am too tired to gather. It rains. But on good days it is possible, if you try, to tippie toe, around the raindrops.