I feel like I have been slammed into the ground with quite a lot of force. I am deflated, like the momentum knocked the wind out of me and now I can’t breathe. My eyes are puffy and sore from too many tears, and more seem to be waiting until there is time to shed them. My coworkers have noticed that I seem quiet and withdrawn. I cried for about three hours last night, pouring out the heartache for myself and for the one who caused it, and think I cried in my sleep as well because when I woke up my eyes were still red and my pillow and blanket were damp. For the first time in a long time I slept with my baby blanket that I’ve had since before I can remember, and it didn’t bring me the comfort it usually does. And the heartache is still there. The weight of it, and the weight of the knowledge and projection for the future that caused it, is nearly unbearable.
I want to be angry at the person who caused this- who caused me to drive more dangerously than I ever have before- flying down the freeway toward PK’s, unable to see where I was going for the gasping sobs emanating from my chest and their accompanying tears. I scared the hell out of PK too, ringing his doorbell at 11pm when he wasn’t expecting me, standing on his porch in my pajamas crying so hard that for the first 10 minutes or so all I could do, other than nod my head to indicate that I myself was all right, was sit in his arms and try to stem the gasping tears enough to speak and tell him what was wrong. I did tell him, and he is one of only two who know why, and I daren’t tell anyone else.
I can’t be angry though. He wants me to be, and I almost wish I were, because anger is easier than anguish. If I was angry I wouldn’t feel so raw. And if I was angry, I wouldn’t feel guilty. Guilty because I am sad for my own future, and his, but his is so much bleaker than mine that I almost feel that weeping for my own pain is wrong. I just have to find a way to keep breathing, and pray that he can too.