Acts of Desperation

by Megan Nolan

Being in love feels like nothing so much as hope; a distilled, clear hope which would be impossible to manufacture on your own. One of the saddest things to feel is that nothing in the world is new, that you have exhausted all your interactions with it. When I feel that way I wake each day into the already-dusky afternoon with deep regret that nothing has happened overnight to change me. I wake so late because although I can’t stand to be conscious, I can’t stand to try to sleep either. To lie down in the dark and think, for even a moment, seems an unspeakable prospect, so I drink until I pass out, or stare at the television until my eyes physically can’t stay open any longer. If I try to travel my way out of this feeling, cities blur into one another. I waste money feeling bad in a piazza by myself, twelve-euro bland pasta, too much wine, some dull man always trying to speak with me. When I go home to Waterford to try to even out and reconnect with myself and my past, people seem to be dying all the time all around me, and I argue with my parents about my reluctance to engage with them. I don’t want to hear about the illnesses and tragedies, and am amazed by their ability to keep attending funeral after funeral. It feels as though all I can do each day is eat and sleep and trudge through the hours and start again – and, in fact, it is all I can do. Anti-depressants come and go, making little difference either way to the fact that my reaction to all of life, all of God’s g...