Everyone feels sad sometimes, I guess, but I wonder if maybe I don’t feel it more than others. Heh, I guess that’s just making an argument to myself that I’m special, unique, and should be treated as such.
It comes without warning. Not always mind you. There are always times when the sadness comes when it’s expected, sometimes even welcome. There’s a film I like to watch now and again because I just feel so terribly sad at the end of it. I have a good long cry. But that sadness, though it is a sadness related to me, and based in part on my own life experiences, is a positive experience. It’s cathartic. By watching the movie and having that release, I can reset myself, for lack of a better term. That expected sadness that I subject myself to, that’s fine. It’s beneficial. It’s good.
But other times, the sadness comes unbidden, unexpected, without warning or apparent reason.
Arrive at the supermarket, turn car off, grab phone, canvas bag, reach for the door handle, and burst into tears. Moments ago I was completely neutral. I wasn’t happy, I rarely am. But now, torrents of tears. I keep my head down so that passersby won’t see. That, too, is probably making an argument to myself that I’m so special that everyone would notice my every move.
You are my soul. I want to be with you always. No one can tear us apart. The summer breezes collect within me and you are the storm unleashed.
… is what I thought. Would that it had all been true. Would that I could have been with you always but now you’re gone and I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s been years but I still don’t know. I’m on autopilot.
Autopilot. That’s a good term. That’s almost precisely what’s going on. You left and I shut down and everything is just automatic. Default. Nothing changes, no alterations to course.
I was never good enough for you, but you loved me anyway. I don’t know if I ever made it clear how I felt. I couldn’t connect with people well back then, not even you. I can’t connect to people at all now. Every time I was with you wanted to tell you that you being with you was the best time of my life. That you, unlike any of the other seven billion people on this dying planet, made me want to be a better person. I wanted you to know that. But I couldn’t say it. The me who couldn’t say the things that needed to be said.
If I couldn’t say what needed to be said to you of all people, then what chance is there now.
I cry all the time. I’m in pain all the time. I ask for help. I tell everyone that I encounter that I’m in trouble, that I’m failing, that I need help, that I can’t do this on my own. On TV and in movies, you always see stories of people who couldn’t accomplish something on their own, and how they asked for help, and then were able to do what they needed to do. Even, in those stories, when the people at first couldn’t ask for help, due to their pride or their shame or both, the moral of the story is always that they ought to have asked for help sooner, because that’s what we’re here for, to help each other.
But when I ask for help, make it known that I’m having a hell of a time of it, nothing. Somehow I don’t matter. I’m not invisible, but the real me is. The me that matters, the me that needs help, the me that loved you, the me that I hope you could see, no one sees it. All they ever see is the shell, the window dressing, the outside. The wrapper. The cover. The contents are irrelevant, who cares. He needs help? He should help himself.
Which is fine, but I’ve tried and I’ve tried and it doesn’t work I can’t do it and I can’t do it and I really can’t do it and I really need help HELP ME and no one ever does no one cares. They didn’t achieve all they’ve done on their own. It’s a rare, rare case that someone has gotten to their place of great happiness and contentment on their own, alone, with no help or intervention from others. They all had help. THEY ALL HAVE HELP but I’m not to have help? I’m supposed to be alone, in the weeds, flailing forever?
Not forever. Just until I drown here surrounded by flowers like some poor mad Ophelia.
What will tomorrow bring? Every day brings new chances and choices and adventures for people. Every day is new. But not for me. Every day for me is the same, and it all stopped when you left, and I hate to say that, I HATE TO SAY IT because it makes me seem weak and powerless but I am and I don’t know what to do and all I want is someone to say that it will be all right and to offer me practical real help. I will do whatever I’m told to. I will do whatever I need to but I’m paralyzed and I need someone to help me.
I love you. I need you. I want you. I’ll love you forever. But you’re gone. That time is gone. That world is gone.
I sometimes wonder if it ever existed, you know? That time. No one remembers it. No one remembers you. Only I remember you. No one seems to remember anything from that time except me. I guess it was a mostly unremarkable period of time in all respects other than that I loved you, and in that it was only remarkable to me and you.
Was it remarkable to you?
Where did you go?
What are you doing?