I used to write four or five days a week. Most of you know – you read every word. The past two weeks have turned practice into torture, the words coming only when I have the energy left over. Rare moments when the world doesn’t seem so heavy or fucking unfair. I never fathomed the energy it takes to spend all of your time doing something so you do not do nothing, because the minute you do nothing, you begin to think.
Some days, and most as of late, thinking sucks.
Sport drinking still feels like shit. Consuming till you stop feeling only makes you feel all the wrong stuff more. Then you get to be pretty: a sobbing, hysterical, drunk ass mess with a stomach that can’t be fixed by puking and leaving you with only a day wasted. The shittier part is you get to spend that whole wasted day thinking. Kinda fucked up when you consider your goal was to not think in the first place. Biochemistry: 1 / Erika: 0.
When I’m not walking around with my head up my ass, however, there are some pretty incredible things. A voice on the phone you’re so happy to hear early in the morning. Surprise invitations for pancakes. Trips you never thought you’d take to say thank you to the ICU staff that did everything they could to save someone even they knew was special. The news that one of your best friends for over 20 years just had her first baby (and that her hubby’s already wrapped around his new daughter’s little finger). Dinner with a new friend where I learned about her and myself. A car ride home where Ingrid Michaelson crooned and I couldn’t tell that Zoe was singing along because their voices are both that rare stuff: pure, raw talent that makes you ready and willing to sit up a little taller while you smile inside.
I still hyperventilate…something I’ve never, ever done in my thirty-seven years until thirteen days ago. I still cry if a stiff breeze blows. But today, for all of my bullshit, was a good day. And while I don’t yet know the meaning of words like “okay” and “better,” I could see that today was good.
I can never sit down and write unless I must. Something has to be stuck and wanting out. I’ve got a lot of shit stuck right now and only bits and pieces are seeping through, but at least most days, I don’t feel like I’m going to implode. I get angry. My sense of humor goes into hibernation (and I reckon it’s in the Blanket Cave with my heart). But laughing…hugging…smiling. They all feel good and I know I haven’t forgotten how to do them. And since this world is one big asshole that decided to keep spinning round, I can choose to let it either throw me off like a haunted, whirling carousel at a cheap county fair or tell it thank you for giving me a reason to hold on and ask gravity to become my friend again.
There’s not a moment I don’t think about Jason. He helps me. He says hello. I see his smile and feel his hand in mine in my dreams. And while there’s a gaping hole in my heart left behind by what was ripped away, there are things and people that still remind me that I’m the luckiest…even on the days where the longest losing streak in Vegas can’t match my feelings that I’ll never win again.
I. Am. The luckiest. That’s the one feeling inside that’s not stuck.