i feel

it is difficult to put into words how i feel at any given moment. since june or maybe it was may , i think it was may, i’ve been a watered down substitute for a person. the other month when drinking wine by the river my friend said i had no reason to be sad right then. i knew she didn’t mean harm, so i said “i’ve got plenty of reasons.” she said to me: well you haven’t been crashing out about it all summer, why do you get to start now?

stress makes people say things, things they probably gloss over and forget. she was stressed, i knew she was stressed, so i just went a little quiet right then, sipped my wine (which was putrid and had dirt floating in it because i was careless when setting it on the cobblestone) and thought about it. i thought: do people think i am not sad? i suppose i do smile a lot and i laugh and i engage well in conversation. i never come late to plans and i saw a friend for coffee two days after it happened. oh god, i realized, i am callous. to the whole world i seem callous and unfeeling and totally, completely, fine.

i notice it in how i quickly sweep away sympathy. yesterday, i had to mention the unavoidable topic of my mothers demise. offhand, briefly, i shot it out, and when the inevitable “oh god, i’m so sorry” came along, i laughed and shrugged and said “thanks”

if you bring it up to my father he gets weak-kneed and begins to weep. shouldn’t i go weak in my knees? shouldn’t i weep? i don’t think it’s for lack of sadness. every day feels a little like torture. i would compare it to death but it seems all the more peaceful than this existence. my mother is dead and she doesn’t know that, for she doesn’t know anything anymore. i envy her lack of knowledge. i wish i could shut this out, too. but i can’t— i saw her yellow dead body, and i did go weak in my knees, i crumpled to the base of the doorway and clung onto the wood as i howled. i wish i could put that on a business card, pass it to the people who ask if i’m okay. no, i’m still that doorway girl. i’m still on the hospital floor. i can still smell the room. i went into the yard to call my best friend and smoke a cigarette and i gagged on my spit as i cried.

but there’s a certain politeness i have that is unshakeable. i don’t even think it can be considered politeness, at this point. it’s more of a curtained shame. i’m like an eighteenth century lady whose child got pregnant out of wedlock. i’d rather brush it under the rug than deal with the emotions publicly. why? that question rattles in my brain. why can’t i just act how i feel?

a girl told me i had a “bummer summer” and i agreed with her. even then i was mentally snickering at the ridiculousness of that phrase. that belongs on a coming of age movies title card. gabriella and her bummer summer. i suppose i can’t fault strangers for not knowing how to respond to my situation. it was a bummer. it was a summer.

when i was vodka-drunk on the back of a moped the guy told me “fuck your mom” in french. i laughed wildly and said he couldn’t say that to me, cause i didn’t have a mom. he got sad and pulled over. told me of course i had a mom. i guess the joke didn’t land very well in a foreign language.

i miss my best friend because she is the only one i have been able to be candid with. though i want to talk about how horrible this weight is to her and i find myself again restraining because i don’t want to burden her. i don’t even want to burden myself. the thoughts are too unpleasant. i keep doing unpleasant things, thinking they’ll make the thoughts go away. they haven’t.

in august: i went on a date and he asked me why i stopped running. oh, i said. oh, it’s a bit depressing. just family reasons. he pressed the issue, promising he didn’t mind. i studied my fingers, where they were wrapped around a coffee mug. i didn’t meet his eye as i told him my mom died and i was too upset to keep running. now the forest reminds me of this, and i cannot get myself to put on the shoes. he barked out a laugh, then shook his head and said an unconvincing apology. i just didn’t expect that, he said, still smiling. you seem completely fine. i shrugged, looks can be deceiving. him: i’m sure it’ll catch up with you soon, grinning. i didn’t see him again. but i considered it. that might be the worst part. i blamed my mother’s death on why i couldn’t go on another date. part of me hoped he’d offer sympathy. he didn’t.

in july: at a club i leaned across the bar top. it was sticky from tequila i’d spilled on myself minutes before. a guy had his hand on my ass. we’d been dancing together, now he asked why i looked so sad. i was waiting for the drink he bought me, spaced out against the mirror behind the lined up bottles of scotch and whiskies. i told him my mother died four weeks prior. he blinked and his mouth went slack and he said “how are you so happy? if my mother died i’d be inconsolable. my life would literally be over.” i smiled weakly, i was a bit too drunk to pretend. i told him i wasn’t happy. not even a little bit happy, in fact. my life would literally be over. everybody says that but you don’t get a choice. i said to him that: “everybody says that. but you don’t know anything.” i shifted uncomfortably and the bartender handed me my wine and asked for my friends instagram. i said i’d ask her. i fought with the man later that night.

in june: my friends came to visit. i was told to slow down on the drinking, slow down on the smoking. thanks, i said. i will when i’m twenty-seven. i saw a guy i missed, one who i used to kiss. he held me by the arm and told me my mother would be alright. i had to tell him there, in the dark of the club, that she was already dead. he looked sadder than i expected. i don’t know how sad i was expecting him to look. he held me on the curb outside and asked me how my life was going. it’s complete shit, i said. he laughed, not unkindly. it was the most honest i’d been in a while. we said we’d keep in touch. we haven’t.

in may: the night my mother died we had all been sitting around a table laughing. then my sister’s husband got a call and we went to the hospital in a sick silence. i remember my aunt screaming softly because her voice never gets too loud. my dads thin leland palmer wail piercing my ears. my sister’s husband silently holding my sister as she cried into his arms. don’t you want to touch your mother? they all asked me. say goodbye? hold her hand? that’s not my mother, was all i thought. if i touch her, i’ll die.

the week before this i graduated and my mother nor my father nor my sister could attend. my friends filmed me from the stands, calling for me to crack a smile. i don’t remember most of the night. i knew she would die, walking across the stage. i struggled to smile for the photo. i cried when i left the stadium. i knew that was i was being handled so delicately. i almost miss it, the nice and gentle way everybody operated without me. like i was special because my mother was dying.

i guess it all happened so quickly that i’m still stuck in that mindset. the one from graduation, where i wasn’t quite sure where i was or what was happening. a girl vomited right next to me and i barely registered it. i only remembered that now.

i went out to the forest the morning of my mothers death. at five am, to watch the sun rise. i waved to a group of runners as i lay in the grass. they looked at me like i was crazy.

i feel.