“I don’t want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can’t even see it, something that’s drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.”
– Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye
I wake up in the middle of the night and have no idea where I am. More often then not, it is raining. I stumble out of bed and look at the plastic roof. Ah yes, the cabin. I had never felt that feeling in Germany. I never once woke in confusion at my own existence. I think of the morning to come. All the mornings yet to come. Fuck I annoy myself. I step down the ladder and look at the first glimpses of dim light outside. My eyes wander to the table. Bills lain out for me to try and figure out a way to pay. “Immediate action from third parties to be taken”. Deeply sighing I sit on the couch. Layla sleeps deeply upstairs and I feel like a sewing machine sewing shit to garbage cans. What is the actual point of such an existence. I struggle to find reasons for why I should want to live. “Should“.
I pick up books, re-read pages and put them down again. I stare at the sea shell I brought back from Föhr. I pick up some knitting, knit two rows, and put it down again. I make plans to build additions for the cabin and a deck. I had a bobcat come drill the holes. That night it pours rain and the holes sluff in on themselves. Pointless.
I stare at six cardboard boxes of books in German. I signed up for three months of German lessons when I got home. I pick up smoking and then quit again. I check the time to see if it’s acceptable to start drinking yet or not. I imagine to the horribly awful and hurt it doesn’t matter what the fucking time is.
Layers of mud cover the new makeshift couches and floor. Our boots are caked in it. I wait for the phone to ring to be going back to work. Because not only am I ready to go back to work, but I’m ready to go back at it, hard.
I think of all the advice people could give me. “Happiness is created by oneself!” “You have so much to be grateful for!”
I watch the low clouds blanket the hills and listen to ravens cry. I can’t listen to music anymore without fogging over. I can’t think about how happy I was. I watch the weight fall off my frame and for whatever reason my teeth glow white. I don’t know if I’m hurting or dead anymore.
I wonder if I shouldn’t have gone at all, certainly I could have saved money – though honestly that’s not enough to even make a dent. Maybe I could have saved myself the heartbreak. I’ve never been the kind to jump from relationship to relationship. If I choose to love it is because I am sure.. It rarely happens – and then I’m hit by fearful hearts. I am not easy to love, if not impossible.
How happy I was. How accepted and understood I was. To feel like I was part of something where I didn’t have to hide in the woods to feel good. To feel part of a family and to feel wanted. God, what a feeling.
Now the cabin feels my pain. She gets new cabinets, paint, she gets organized. I take out my sorrow on continuing to build a home for nobody. Oh how I would have loved to be mixing cement today by hand for my deck of high functioning pain.
I watch the lupins go to seed and the wild roses bloom. I watch the rain fall and watch my windows start to leak. I close my eyes and when I open them the room swims. What a horrible thing life can be. I help Finley to stand (he too, was hit by a truck) and we go outside. We stand at the top step and rain beats down my face and pours off the tin roof into my back, but I don’t feel it. Because honestly, I just don’t fucking care anymore.