Friday, January 14, 2011
"I walk wakeful and every day
is a calendar square like a prison yard
to pace. Every day is laid on
me and torn off like a bandage
on a slow dripping wound"
As a child, every year I headed toward felt dooming. I rushed to not waste them; the future was a brick wall. Now at 25 I feel like my life is over. I'm not excited to graduate in a few months. I have to, because I don't belong in school anymore and I can't fail at this yet again. But I don't feel like I can have a life afterward. I definitely can't work with kids or teenagers. i see a group of teenage girls on the bus or a child holding hands with a parent and I feel so much grief.
I just want to feel safe and contained. I continue to search. At 25 I still stare at yellow-lit windows of houses at night while I walk, wondering when I will return to two parents who’ll wonder where I’ve been, who will ask me how I’m doing, take care of me. At 25 that is never going to happen. I’m supposed to be that for someone else and I can’t. I had my chance but it wasn’t enough. Nothing is enough for me. I suck up love and concern like a black hole. I can’t be filled, there’s never enough to sustain me. If you didn’t get what you needed back then, is anything after that ever enough?
What do you do when you’ve never lived? When you can’t recall a single day spent in your body instead of outside it, or a day spent outside of your head, the judgments that swirl around. I wish I had regrets. I have nothing solid. I spend nights looking at pictures of other people’s lives, trying to remember what my life felt like. I remember the past like I lived a hundred different lives, none connected to me, but only to the people who were with me. If they aren’t with me now all is lost; I can’t hold on to the feelings, they slip away. Each chapter of my life passing is like a death.
I was six and sobbing after any good day passed, scared I wouldn’t be able to hold onto it. I was right. That was the year I started saving everything, and was given my first journal; continuously replaced and furiously scribbled into, minute details, because if they were forgotten had I ever even existed? What child barely starting out in life fears time running out, pressing down? I was six and my summer of needles and hospitals and legs splayed open had changed me. I understood the future with a sense of doom, with the approaching procedures and symptoms I was powerless to stop. Time was a wave and there was nothing to cling to. My life soon became one eternal clinging, as if to lose anything is to lose myself. My self tied with others, with objects, any reminder or proof of my own existence.