It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m sitting on my bedroom floor staring up at the ceiling. I can see the lines of paint and blotches which weren’t completely covered when I redecorated my room two years ago – I insisted in painting it all by myself, which is why it looks a bit messy.
It’s a really grey day. The type of grey which makes the world feel a bit darker but at the same time usually makes me feel really cosy. I typically love this type of weather and use it as an excuse to light some candles while I curl up a blanket and sink my teeth into whatever book I’m currently reading. Which if I were doing that would be Betrayal in Death by J.D Robb – the twelfth in the series which I am really enjoying at the moment.
But I’m not. Lying back and staring at the ceiling I just want to breathe. I’m aware that obviously, I am breathing – I’m typing this fully conscious after all, and if I weren’t breathing then surely that would mean I would be dead. Which I’m not, at least not in the traditional sense. But inside, I think I might be.
I feel like I have an enormous weight, one of those which people use for weightlifting, lying flat on my chest. It’s a feeling I’ve had for a few weeks now though I’ve been trying to hide it. After all, I’m meant to be the one to stay together – not that there is much choice because if I fall apart too then that’s it, there isn’t anyone else to hold us all together.
Maybe. Just maybe we really are cursed. My family that is – though I have pondered whether it would make an interesting story because as I say whenever I see my counsellor, “It sounds like a story, you couldn’t make this shit up!”. Which he often nods too – though I can’t keep from wondering if he thinks I am. I sometimes question it also in the moments before I fall asleep or in those first few moments I am awake. The moments when I can forget, rewind the clock before it all began… it would have to rewind pretty far back now though.
I keep trying to look forward. I wonder how this year will end. I don’t even know.
All I know is that I don’t have many people left. Before I went off to university, I thought I had this huge family, so many cousins and aunts and uncles but no anymore. Just one funeral after another. Only one more phone call and not saying ‘hello’ but it always seems like the words which come from my lips seem to be, ‘whose died? or ‘what’s happened?’
I had a lecturer say to me, “You need time to just be 21.” The irony of it, I’ve never had time – not really – to be whatever age I am. My closest friends often say I am 85 years old and although it’s in jest I honestly feel like it.
I’m tired, and I don’t know what to do. Not really. Apart from doing my job, hold us all together. Be on call as it were no matter what.
Maybe one day I won’t have to worry about having a black dress to hand or see inside of closed off hospital rooms or dreaded hours waiting, watching the time tick by or be the one to handle the crisis. But if that happens, then I suppose that will mean I am alone. And if that’s the case then…
what do i do?