If I had written this post 2 days ago, which I would not have for I felt the world ending, this post would be dark and disturbing. I would probably bring up suffocation, dying under an under-speeding trunk in the middle of the night, or killing someone you love. I would draw gory analogies for the pain in my chest that still hasn’t abandoned me.
I realized, when I woke up today, that there was nothing left to lament. Like I realized, early on in life, that there are no in-betweens in my mental health, and there are none in mummy’s. She went from hating me, wishing me dead, breaking things I made for her, to feeding me, in a night, in a few medicine doses. Everything went back to “as you were” like in a school assembly. And only now am I learning to navigate the low time without hate and remorse. I haven’t managed, yet. But I feel braver than yesterday, every day.
I try to put a distance between myself and the words that are hurled and received. But they remain, locked away in time. They hang in my life, limp and heavy, as I try to recover the room of my mind from the storm. The initial setting happens quickly, chairs are straightened, papers gathered, and the routine goes on. But I have trouble placing the smaller objects; sleep eludes me; when it comes, I dream ferociously like I never slept at all. In my dream, I ate chips for hours and hours. Then I work at healing my digestive system, only after which I pick up the shards of my work life. I dust the platforms and fold clothes: I meet baby R and she exclaims “Look Dida, the moon is traveling with us” “Papa, you aren’t driving well, I can’t see the moon!” like airing the room. But the heaviness clings to the air. I am happy, deeply happy I assure you, but I feel oppressed by a sense of loss: not of present loss, but of something missing in the past. If that makes sense.