Life feels like it’s going by so fast, my head spins if I stop long enough to notice it.
I’d been doing well…
Until, recently. It’s almost as if the only way to be ok is by being numb to everything but I can only remain numb for so long because after a while, numb feels worse than giving in to the old familiar sadness inside of me.
Sometimes, a long time goes by without feeling the void I’ve always felt. In that time, I can function. I feel normal-almost. Then, out of nowhere, it turns into a gaping void that demands attention, or it will swallow me whole, and I reach for the same old familiar things that make it feel better.
I hadn’t done so in years but I’ve picked up cigarettes again. It’s a coping tendency, a distraction from the things I don’t want to feel, the ones I’ve carried all my life.
On the outside, I’m just fine. I go to work and function as well as I can but the long drives home are more time alone than I can bare without a distraction from the things inside my head.
I blast the radio and sing the songs like my life depends on it-some days, it feels as though it really does-but in my heart there’s an overbearing sadness that I can’t understand.
I don’t like pity but I feel it for myself when I realize that there isn’t really a time I can remember when this sadness wasn’t a part of me, my heart has always been broken and there is nothing that will ever make it feel entirely whole again-I get that. But the realization of it only makes the hurt that much worse.
I’ve started to believe that I’m so used to having a broken heart, that when I start to feel differently, I place myself in situations that I know will-inevitably-break it all over, again, just to see how long it will take this time.
The thing about broken hearts is that they are never, ever, entirely put back together at all…
They are held together-in intervals-by hope that life can be different, that we can be different. Until, we hear a song, smell a familiar scent, see a familiar place, or a face that reminds us that we are not put together at all. And it shatters all over again without us even realizing until it’s so broken that the weight of its shards is overwhelming.
So, I smoke, not because I don’t know that cigarettes can kill me but because it feels as though the sadness inside of me already is…
I think I’ve left pieces of myself in every place that’s made me feel alive, in all of things that I’ve lost, in the people that I’ve loved, and in every “almost” that will never be.
And I’ll spend all of my life searching for them…
I do my best to feel better. I stay close to the things I cherish, I don’t let many people in, and I focus on the things that keep me together instead of on the ones that are tearing me apart but it’s hard… So. Damn. Hard.
I’ve been here before and I know that in time, I will be fine again.
I just needed to come here and write to remind myself of that…
“Something inside is hurting you, that’s why you need cigarettes and whiskey, or music turned so fucking loud, you can’t think.”