Here’s what you hear when I tell you I’m moving this weekend:
“She’s packing up and going home.”
What you don’t hear, though, are these words revolving around my head like silent wolves stalking wounded prey:
“She’s leaving everything she knows. She’s going through a change and a difficult transition because she can’t tell up from down and left from right, and she’s struggling.”
Just having the words to say here that I’m struggling . . . is enough of a struggle itself. As much of a struggle as it took to take a breath during that ellipsis.
But really . . . why can’t I tell you these words hidden behind the implied meanings of “I’m moving?”
Why can’t I tell you how heavy the dread was that dropped into my stomach when a customer at work asked me yesterday, “How are you today?” I answered, in a fake enthusiastic tone, “Good, thank you!” But my world was shaken to the core of my soul when immediately after a commanding, violent, prominent voice blurted into my mind, “No, you’re not.”
A voice that sent shudders down my spine and into every cloud-shrouded fiber of my soul, because it had called out truth my knowing eyes were too shy, too scared to see.
Because he was right. I wasn’t good. Not even remotely.
Why can’t I tell you the dull ache of guilt I felt when my boss bought me breakfast from Whataburger and made me stop what I was doing to eat breakfast and drink coffee because he noticed I was “too quiet” the day before? I know he did this to hype my energy up, but how do you tell your boss it’s not an energy problem you’re having, but rather a problem that requires you to fight raging battles in your mind multiple times a day, not seeing any end to the dark skies over bloody battlefields littered with your slaughtered thoughts?
Why can’t I tell you about the flashbacks I’m getting from my last relapse into depression? How this week and the way the evening light filters through my window and how my morning walk to my car is filled with thoughts of how I’m not so sure I want to work today and how I keep thinking of my daily routine activities as cycles I am chained to, trapped within unwillingly, forced to turn about and about in them like damp, worn clothes in an old dryer.
Why can’t I tell you about the heavy clutter that drags my mind down into this familiar darkness, and how my fingers scrape against the corners of my mind trying to find a grip against what I know is coming next: the heavy float down into the empty cavern of numbness, and the not knowing how many layers are in this pit because it’s too dark to see?
Why can’t I tell you about how I’ve been dragging my will to pack along the past few days, instead choosing to take naps and do anything and everything else other than empty my room? I think it’s my subconscious effort against seeing the blank walls and empty corners and stripped beds and broken-down cozy comforts–it’s the effort to not purposefully tear down with my own weary fingers a space I built for me . . . for the happy and calm and peaceful days and days with moments just like these, when the questioning and pain and never-ending sadness and numbness become too much.
Why can’t I tell you that I write this down doubting if I even have the gall to post this, because I know it will bring concerned questions and comments about how this piece is heavy. But it’s what I’m feeling, and it’s what I’m thinking, and I know that I’m not the only one out of 7 billion people in this world that is feeling these things, thinking these things, letting them curl along my bones and dampen the dark corners of my mind.
Why can’t I tell you, when you look at me and notice that I’m a little too quiet, that I’m a little too off . . .
why can’t I tell you that I’m just experiencing change and I drag my feet through change like it’s mud and I’ll be fine in a few weeks once I settle in?
Why can’t I tell you?
Maybe I never will.