I’ve never thought of the phrase about getting something off someone’s chest. But lately, I get it, I understand where it comes from because I feel an incredible weight has taken root in my chest, and I can’t breathe. But I can’t talk about it either.
That’s been my life for a while. I mean, it’s always everyone’s lives to some extent. I don’t think that everyone can talk about everything whenever they want – it’s not smart, sensitive, responsible, etc. But sometimes I feel like certain things, I can’t talk about period, which doesn’t sit well with me. I’m a very “out with it” kind of person. I think secrets divide people. I think problems seem insurmountable when they’re left for too long, untended to. I live my life with a “barrel through it” attitude and I practice exactly that. But few things (I’d say nothing, but then it would be an ironic sort of statement) are absolute.
Right now, I’m dealing with a lot. It’s all consuming. And I feel like I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell friends, and it’s not that I even want to, it’s that I am tired of being consumed. I’m tired of being in my own head. I feel like I can’t breathe.
Right now the only thing that is certain is that right now nothing is certain. And yes, that would be an appropriate absolute. Normally I would write about it, but I can’t. I don’t have the distance. When you write about something, you write from the perspective of now versus the experience being then. You have hindsight. While you have to be close to it for the words to be compelling, you can’t be so close to it that the writing hurts you, or you’re unable to see the truth of it clearly. Or you write to sort through something. You write to process, to discover and dissect – to understand.
I’m in the thick of it so I don’t have that distance. And I don’t need to dissect, discover, process or understand. I’ve done that already. I’m not emotional, not like I should be, but it’s not that I’m numb, I’m somewhere beyond that – I’m raw.
I hope to be to some place where I can start to see exactly how things will come next. Choices, actions, consequences – to see which road I’m bound to. I’m at an impasse. I can’t make a plan. I can’t do anything until I know the route I’ll be taking. I have no doubt I will heal. No doubt I’ll survive. It’s not about that. I can’t begin to live (right now I’m surviving), or heal or do anything that is necessary and productive until I know the road I’m on. So now I wait, ignoring how raw/numb/tired/consumed I am.
Someone asked me how I survive this. “Because I know how to survive. I’m good at it, it’s what I do.” I didn’t have another response. I could tell they thought I was in denial but I’m not. I understand, fully, my capabilities and limits. One limit is I can’t keep surviving like this. If change occurs then I know the road to take. If nothing happens, or something terrible happens, then I know the road to take. And so now I wait, feeling isolated and so much “not me” I don’t even recognize myself. Because I’m not a secret-keeper. I don’t believe in them. I find myself making choices that I never thought I would. That the me a few years past would disapprove of, and find unhealthy. I don’t and yet every exception I have ready feels like a cliché I said I’d never be.
I can’t talk about it. I don’t know that I want to. I don’t think I do. I’m all talked out.
I’ve wondered about writing it, but that is again all in my own head. I’m done with my head, over my head, want to be out of my head.
Whenever I start writing something, I think about its purpose. What message does this have? What difference does it make? What is the impact? These are the questions I use to weigh a piece’s worth. How important it is, if it’s important at all. With this – I can’t answer those questions or the answers I have are ones that would keep me from writing anything at all.
This isn’t just my story, but then what is really “just ours”. Our parents, friends, siblings, spouses, exes all dot our story and when they appear it becomes a part of theirs as well. Perhaps little is “my story” and most is “our story” with the “our” constantly changing.
This is not my story to tell. Yes, it is my story. Yes in telling it, it would be coming from me – mine. But it’s not just mine. And I feel that this story is more of someone else’s. I’m only in it because we are a part of each other’s lives but if this were a movie or a book, I would play a supporting role. It’s not about me. It just affects me. It just consumes me. It just makes me feel so conflicted and lost and sad and angry and desperate and hopeless and hopeful and protective and loving and fierce and so very breakable, the word fragile doesn’t come close to describing how I feel…
But I can’t talk about it. So I’m not saying much to anyone about anything. I don’t make plans or they’d see it on my face, in my eyes, they’d hear it in my voice – they’d know.
It is interesting to feel isolated and lonely and yet not want to see the world, or anyone else in it.
I am at an impasse.
I am the impasse.