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You can only be young and stupid for so long, though we certainly gave it our all.”
What do you remember most—the moments your parents genuinely tried, or all the times they definitely failed? I’ve never figured out that answer. Sitting here now, I focus on the good. That this moment is beautiful and perfect, and I’m wise enough now to appreciate all the moments that came before it, even the less beautiful and less perfect ones, as they led me here.
And yet I keep coming back for more, collecting memories that aren’t even my memories and clutching them tight to my chest. If you hoard other people’s tragedies, does that make your own easier to bear?
A dry drunk. That’s what Paul accused me of being when I first started doing this work. Substituting one dangerous addiction for another.
My entire life, I have always wanted to just be.
Plans give you a list of tasks to keep you from drowning in your own fear. Plans give you a feeling of control, even if it’s just an illusion at the time.
In the beginning the awful memories block out everything, a total eclipse of happiness. But, bit by bit, the good times sneak through again, and the pain becomes less a feral beast and more a wise companion. I don’t know if that’s peace, but it is progress.
We mourn the ones we’ve lost, but we agonize over the pieces of ourselves they took with them. The identities we’ll never have again. The emotions we’re certain we’ll never feel again. The sense of our own selves, becoming undone and disappearing just as completely and suddenly as those who vanished.
The life I lead—my presence matters; my absence never leaves a mark.
