It’s late again. At somewhere beyond 3am yesterday morning, I lay in the scratchy darkness and asked myself whether I’m really alright. Now here I am again, gathering dust in the small hours.
I don’t know. I mean about being alright. Somehow I’ve got strength to pretend to be when I need to, but I’m actually scared that I’ll run out of that. And then what? It feels a bit like gravity might slow me down and all the suspended parts of me will collapse in on themselves in public. Maybe I should let it. I’m the last person to know.
A friend of mine passed away this week. She was smart and funny, kind and brave. I hadn’t spoken to her in a long time - which made matters worse. When I found out, sudden, suspected heart attack... I spasmed into shock - a cold, unthinking nothingness. The words swam but I didn’t cry. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t. I was in a vacuum of grief, a black hole of nothing.
That vacuum doesn’t last. After a day or so, I realised that I just needed the simplest thing: a hug. A father’s hug, like an enormous bear blanket, wrapping and folding around me, holding me tight, catching these boiling tears, showing me that love is strength and silence when it needs to be. But nobody was there. I had to face the implosion alone.
Scratchy darkness. 3am. I hope I get to sleep tonight; it would be great if I could.
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