The brick in my pocket.

I have a lot to say. The truth is, I’ve had a lot to say the last nine months but finding the energy and emotions to say those things is difficult. Contrary to what I believe, the scale of saying something and the impact it will have versus saying nothing at all and how life may continue – has been a muddy, unbalanced, immeasurable one. Ultimately, it all feels the same, so I keep quiet.

And maybe that’s why when my boyfriend (ex now, I’m told that’s what you have to say to make it feel real) and I broke up a few weeks ago I’ve been sparked to finally feel something fully. Fully is hard to define though, too. I am feeling the weight of it fully- but there are times when I can’t but help feel lighter, that my shit-storm (it’s the fun way to refer to my sadness train) is affecting one less person I care for but also heavier now that I’m left to bear it alone. There are also times I want to blame my Mom for this. I know it’s unfair to throw knives when she’s not even here to defend herself, but I know she played a role in it and when you’re this sad, it is easier to pick on the dead…

As much as I want to dwell on it and do things differently- I just pray that you are happy. I want happiness for both of us. The difficult part is no longer having a right to know how you’re doing and what keeps you laughing, no longer having the right to know you and be known by you. I have to be okay with that and understand that’s how you heal… Just know that I miss my best friend.

—

It’s interesting. You always hear that there are two kinds of people. In reality, there are many kinds of people and one long, personal, continuous fence of life. And as we walk along this fence as individuals we find we are on one side or the other of different groups of people and issues and that’s how we find ourselves and tell our stories. On January 26th of this year I hopped the fence.

It’s not ‘normal’ to lose a parent at 21 so I found myself among few people my age. The few who are here are incredible people. Sometimes I think the most beautiful thing I’ve discovered is that in a single shared look I’ve been more wholly understood than ever before. But this side of the fence is a double edge sword. I have a hard time relating to anyone on the other side now. The problems the other side faces I find irrelevant to me. They’re still their struggles and valid, but I can’t relate because loss feels so much heavier to me than fear and failure. It’s not their fault they haven’t been dealt a fucked up hand but the gap isn’t helped because without the loss of someone who held so much of your life together, it’s hard to understand how quickly it can fall apart and how much space that person occupied in your life. It’s been nearly a year and I still think about my mother in every way in most of my minutes. The division is that people expect a certain time frame for grieving and then with that acceptance we are to move forward.

In many ways, I have healed. I’ve laughed louder than I remember and I still find a zest for life but I have learned that even that control is out of my hands. My wish is that the other side of the fence could give grace to our tears. I don’t choose to see a hawk fly above the field along the highway and boisterously laugh at the memory of the hundreds of times my mother cut conversation to watch a bird in its path in the same way that I don’t choose to then fall apart because I would give anything to have another interrupted conversation with her.

The fence is what keeps life interesting. It’s how you relate to the people beside you and respect the ones on the other side. There are no walls in life, just a fence with holes for hands to hold each other that I am thankful for.

—

“Does it ever go away?”

“No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t – has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.”

“How?”

“I don’t know… the weight of it, I guess. At some point it becomes bearable. It turns int something that you can crawl out from under and… carry it around like a brick in your pocket. And you… you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and – there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be awful – not all the time. It’s kinda… not that you’d like it exactly, but it’s what you’ve got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh… it doesn’t go away. Which is…”

“Which is what?”

“Fine, actually.”