The leaves have fallen.

Journaling

I am trying really hard to take care of myself, to fight off this feeling of being crushed, it’s getting harder to breath. I’m forcing myself to get out of bed, if only to move to the couch, or to go outside to smoke. I’m forcing myself to remember that this is my favorite season, when the leaves show the beauty of death, turning seemingly unnatural hues in abundance. It works momentarily, the voices on the radio give me some company, but here I am again, returned to the couch, tempted to lay for the rest of the day.  I’m trying to remember how good it feels to hike for hours on end, or to feel so cold you think you’ll never feel warm again, I’m trying to remember.

I don’t know how this creeps in, part of me says this is my natural way, I always succumb to anxiety and self doubt and pessimism and painful apathy. Part of me says you were a really good distraction from myself, you inspired me to think positive, to hope, to want. I think I’m winning, or at least part of me is. I’ve let myself wallow for a while and as it goes, I think maybe time will stop if I stop paying it attention. Though trying to embrace anything forces the recognition that nothing is the same.

The leaves have fallen, the cold has set in. The only remnant of you is the things I guess you’ve decided you don’t need. The antlers you hung, the clothes you left in boxes, some artwork on the walls, little things collected on shelves with no one to look after them. I don’t want to move them, put them away. I can’t fill the empty spaces where you used to fill, literally and figuratively. Even sleeping on the bed is strange, I leave your side vacant.

You haven’t actually left though, you only have one foot outside the door, in someone else’s bed. You come to fill these spaces here and there, leaving me hopeful again. You come when you need it, when you’re tired, when you’re sad, when you’re horny, when you feel guilty. You come to our home and remind me you’re not dead. You whisper sweet words to me, tell me you love me, tell me you’re sorry. You cry and say it’s not easy, you made a mistake, I deserve better. Still, though, reaching away from me.

And, I feel guilty. I feel it for not understanding, and for understanding, and for wanting you and for being so angry. I feel guilty for believing you always, and trusting you still. I feel guilty for myself for letting myself let you crush me. And, I feel guilty for you, for not holding you accountable, for not asking you why, for not expressing my anger. I feel guilty for letting you keep your foot halfway in our home. I feel guilty for hurting, and I feel guilty every time I think I don’t need you. I feel guilty for letting myself feel the crushing weight of my own thoughts. I feel guilty for staying in bed.

I hope for some clarity, I hope I can forgive myself, I hope I can forgive you. I am fearful for what happens if I cannot. I’ve succeeded in reminding myself that patience may be my only option. I will continue to try to remind myself of beauty in myself, but also in you, though I think I will find it in the natural world first. I do have hope, though, for now, it’s mostly a memory.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good journey in the words. Your words written had a feel of a well organized and thought through journal. I liked the honest statement and the accepting of life as-is. Thank you Ofie for sharing the letter and the thoughts.
Coyote