July 30, 2020

When it Feels like your Heart will Never be Whole Again.

I’ve been told I’m mourning. 

If this is mourning, I hope to never have to mourn another soul. 

I thought I was doing better today until my barista asked, “How are you?” A tear dripped on the money I handed her, and she looked concerned. I faked a smile through my mask to ease her discomfort (and mine).

I spoke to my psychiatrist today.

“I’m doing okay,” I said when asked how I was. 

It was a lie, but I can’t seem to muster the truth that my heart was placed into a blender and turned into another consistency that will never become whole again.

I opened Zoom today for work and, again, was asked how I was.

“Great!” I said, shaping my mouth into the same fake smile of my kindergarten photo. 

I went for a drive this evening but found myself crying, so I returned home. When I pulled into the driveway, I rested my head on the steering wheel and cried the way one does when they grieve the loss of a parent. I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I hit the horn by accident. 

I then went inside and attempted to soothe myself with my weighted blanket. It didn’t help, so I took a hot shower. This didn’t help either, so I tried wrapping my towel around my body and sat down on the floor with the faucet left running. 

I felt better as I rested my cheek on the tile of my bathroom floor. 

I’ll just sleep here tonight with my towel and pretend the running faucet is the Pacific Northwest’s rain. This, at least, seems to ease the pain. 

An ant was crawling on the floor, and I wondered if it mourned the way humans do. I didn’t think it did and prayed that God would make me an ant in my next life, so I don’t have to experience mourning. I then whispered a message to those in charge of our next lives to please let me know where I can make a deposit toward my future ant-life. I begged them not to make me human and informed them that I am truly okay with not being a poet. 

My psychiatrist said there’s no timeline for mourning, but some days I wonder if I’ll ever heal. It’s been 14 months, and the bleeding hasn’t stopped. 

Unfortunately, I’m not an ant in this life; I’m a poet. If you, too, are resting your cheek tonight on the tiles of your bathroom floor, please know you’re not alone. I’m sending you a hug—from my bathroom tile to yours. 

Love from a current poet (soon to be ant), Rebecca

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