You have no idea what it took to become this strong. Most people see it as a strength while I am beginning to try not to see it as a major character flaw. The blood, sweat, and tears that had to happen to make me the person others never have to worry about. The one that always feels a couple steps ahead of everyone else and thinking I am the asshole for seeing the ending and getting prepared for it. The very specific skill set I have honed after a lifetime of trauma, loss, hospital rooms, funerals, and never being able to put myself first. The “strength” you admire is mostly just the combination of my C-PTSD and ADHD and telling myself there is no other choice I can make except to keep going, because I learned at a very young age, that I couldn’t rely on anyone consistently enough to feel safe.
I learned to compartmentalize, to process my feelings alone (if I even took the time to process them at all), and that whatever the hell I was fighting in the dark alone was too much of a burden to share with anyone in my life. I can only think of a handful of times in my life that I ever allowed myself to break down completely in front of someone else. The moments I couldn’t control and came out of nowhere that didn’t give me time to run or push people away. Whenever I think about losing my mom in that hospital room, I can still feel the phantom grip I had on Molly’s shirt when she hugged me. Like I was afraid if I let go the moment became real. I can feel my knees hitting carpeted floor when my mom told me Gram had passed. And by the time it came around to my dad my mind and body had basically decided, not again. How after his surgery and I heard the word “metastasized” I was the only one spiraling and knew it meant game over and then got on the elevator because I needed to be alone somewhere to unravel. Months after losing him grief hit me so hard out of nowhere that I asked John to grab me something for nausea, and as soon as the front door closed, I was on the floor of the bathroom making noises like a wounded goddamn animal and sobbing so hard I threw up.
I wish I could say it gets easier with time. That I don’t feel the absence down to the bone and at a molecular level. It ebbs and flows. Some years, it’s not that it feels “easier”, but maybe it just doesn’t hit so hard where it hurts. I’ve struggled with not “having” to call or text someone when the plane lands, when a holiday comes up and I’m not expecting a call and no one expects a call from me, not having that one person that knows me better than I know myself, or someone I don’t worry about burdening with my really shitty days. I’ve started to come to terms that a lot of my behavior was learned from a very young age, no take backsies. I will believe all of the worst things about myself, ignore facts that say otherwise, and still show up for people thinking it’s the bare minimum I can do. I’ve equated myself to a vending machine, I will take your compliment and spit it back out like a wrinkled dollar a few times before begrudgingly accepting it.
Because no one warns you that being the person no one ever worries about comes with a price you’ll be paying well into your 30s and still struggle every single day trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Do I actually like being alone, or have I gaslit myself off the ledge and made myself believe that’s what I want until it became true? Because no one can hurt you or disappoint you if you don’t give them a chance to. People can’t not show up if you never asked them to show up. They can’t hurt your feelings if you’re not willing to share them. But they also can’t help you hold your grief or sadness or anger if you never let anyone in. They can’t show up because you’ve basically put a “go away” mat outside of your front door and act like everything is great when your house is haunted by ghosts you can’t even name and ones you can.
This time, 9 years ago, I didn’t know my world would come crashing down around me. In one of the most traumatic, horrific ways. I think at this time 9 years ago, I was working at the comic book store. Completely unaware that in a few hours I’d be getting out of the shower, getting ready for bed, and getting the phone call I had been dreading since I was 12 and old enough to understand my parents weren’t invincible. And I keep telling my stupid brain that I wasn’t alone for any of that. There were people in the room with me. People that held me. People that cried with me. People that showed up to help me. People that yelled at me to let them help, because we all know I’d rather break my own arm than ask for help.
I’m staring down the barrel of 9 years today. The things I wish I could share with my mom. The things we would have done. How finally my “8 going on 40” was finally starting to lean a bit more towards 40 these days. She’d probably make fun of my new birdwatching habit. I’d probably end up with bird trinkets in every room of the house because her love language was showing she listened and cared deeply, but also poke fun at you. She would have spoiled her granddogs rotten and she would have been their favorite. She would have been super proud (and slightly jealous) I inherited my gram’s green thumb. I don’t know if I would be a different person today if I hadn’t lost her at 24. I don’t know if my life would have played out in other ways. If I could have healed parts of me that I will never get back now. If the voice inside of my head wouldn’t be what it is. The only thing I do know is I was lucky enough to have been loved as fiercely and openly by someone and to love someone so deeply that’s she is in almost every single thing I do, and will be for the rest of my life.