Let me read it to you…
I don’t want to write about this because I don’t want to be known for this. I reject this. I don’t want to lament and complain and find more ways to describe an awful thing. I really just want this to be like a dream I cannot remember, like a storm cloud passing quickly by without a single flash or sound.
I don’t want to write about days when I go to bed at 6pm because I’ve really just had enough being awake, how I don’t even brush my teeth or wash the mascara from my eyes and I just fall into an unmade bed, sometimes with my clothes still on, and how I don’t have any trouble at all falling asleep because it’s my secret passageway to disappearing, an escape from the endless day, and how my last thought is wouldn’t it be nice if I never had to wake up again.
I don’t want to write about this because it sounds depressing and worrisome and broken. I don’t want to see the words on paper, read back lines about loneliness or aging or being afraid to fail or gaining weight again because it feels dark, it feels cold, it feels like an enormous drag.
I don’t want to write about how I wake up at 4am, grateful for the peace and quiet of the world at that hour, how it’s the time of day when I feel most whole and content and in love with life, the time of day when there are no people, no news, nothing stamping its expectations into my forehead, only a grey tabby reminding me it’s time to pour the food into the bowl.
I don’t want to write about the darkness because I’m afraid to be handcuffed to dread, afraid I won’t be able to carry it. afraid it will crush me under its weight. If I don’t write about pain, I must write about joy and joy is a better companion and if I have to close my eyes because it all feels like too much, I’d still like my face turned toward the light.
Copyright Cynthia Berg 2017