forty-seven: pain

i haven’t much wanted to write this one, either.

it’s just…this one little four-letter word cannot even begin to capture the experience of remembering what i did, nearly three years ago. it doesn’t even start to cut it, represent it, describe it.

it doesn’t cover the far-reaching loss of relatives, friends, and acquaintances i’ve experienced since then, the isolation. the whole-body pang when i hear the word family. the three father’s days and mother’s days i’ve endured since then. the putting-up with the continued mindfuckery by text and email. the depth of guilt for not knowing how to negotiate a relationship with my parents for our young daughter (and the original panic of ohmygodohmygoddidhehurthertoo). the boundaries we’ve had to put in place for her protection, without being able to answer her angry questions as to why they are there.

the interruptions to intimacy within my marriage. the countless nights i’ve sobbed into my pillow, soundlessly and at top volume and most everything in between. the ways it has manifested itself in my body, through physical illnesses and symptoms i’ve never had before. the impact on our finances, as i pay people to help me clean up the mess that was left in my body, in my inner child, in my life. the way i’ve questioned my parenting. the self-loathing. the self-loathing. the self-loathing.

the terrifying, whispery refrain that burbles up every so often that everyone would be better off if i wasn’t here. that i would be doing everyone a favour. the way that i have believed those horrible words, that i have considered them so closely, more than i care to admit.

and one of the grossest aspects of this pain is that i am not alone in it. it is shared, among so many millions of us. people i know and people i don’t. people i love, like pocketbrit, and people i don’t love at all. the stories are varied but the exquisite, soul-shattering experience of it? is not even remotely unique.

there is no comfort in this.

just tears and tears and tears.

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