They come sporadically, these thoughts. They’re never truly welcome, but she doesn’t really do much to stop them from their incessant and steady stream of sorrow. One thought turns to two, which turns to five which turns to fifty. Her previously drooping eyes are wide apart in hyper-vigilance now; she’s always prepared for the unexpected, having been caught off guard too many times to count.
Nothing ever good happens to those who wait. (Or at least that’s how it should go)
She can’t trust her thoughts, not really. She knows they’re lying to her. Telling her that her friends don’t need her, her family doesn’t want her, her existence is meaningless, and that her attempts at making any kind of difference anywhere are futile. She knows they’re lies. But they’re really, really good ones.
The ghosts of past wounds ring through her body and the aches can be felt on a molecular scale, each and every atom and cell of her being protesting their very existence. Give me a break, I didn’t ask to be born. The aches throb in retribution but the statement isn’t any less true. Presence by force, scars by tribulations.
The aching sensation eventually becomes one akin to a full kind of hollowness. She’s bursting at the seams with a vigor for life she still doesn’t really understand, but she’s so drained and exhausted and how do people keep doing this because she’s only twenty-one and already so, so tired.
It’s no use wallowing in this vicious circle of self-pitying and helplessness. She’s heard countless times to be kind to herself, and she thought nothing more of it other than a pathetic attempt at temporary happiness, but at this point she’s desperate.
Her dog. Her sister. Her parents. The ocean. The smell of landscaping. Spanish tiled roofs. Salt spray on sun-caked skin. Warm rain. Belly laughs and belted songs. Love for life in all its purest forms.
She should be kind to herself. She’s so young and she’s already experienced so much. Indescribable amounts of love, unimaginable loss, and sorrow, profound shock, and awe at the multitudes within her reach.
But this isn’t a “be kind to yourself” kind of moment. This is one of those moments where she can do nothing more but submit to the avalanche of emotions that threaten to overtake and drown her. She’s just so tired.
Is this okay? Can I do this?
She wills the throbs to a dull ache, silences her roaring thoughts to a faint murmur, and lets her own anxiety tire itself out. All is quiet for a pin drop of a moment before her body starts heaving with gasps and wracking with shudders. She doesn’t know why she’s crying really. She doesn’t need to know.
Just this one moment. I’ll rest.