As I try to resume my normally-scheduled programming called life, I have become more aware of some drastic changes that have been brewing since October. Smiles come at a greater cost. If you look above, it was easy for us to smile the way we did. Almost carelessly, as if the world would never end and anything was possible.
I still believe that, but I notice some massive shifts in my inner core that are really taking a toll on myself and those around me. Things are just not the same. It’s a bit tougher for me to just crack a smile or joke—I’m much less tolerant of things that I would normally let roll over my shoulders, and there’s been a lot more, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
While I am poking about here in Block Island for Race Week, I do get some time to just contemplate on things. Fresh air, open space, a huge house to get lost in. When I get to try do some of that thinking, all I am coming up with is the same thing over and over: “What am I to become?” It’s puberty all over again. Awkward moments where I would otherwise have tremendous confidence when I would otherwise falter, anger when I would usually laugh, and complete despair when I should be celebrating.
As a rooster crows in the distance and the wind whips across the dunes, I sit in a giant house doing something I’ve truly found a passion for. That, for the most part, has little connection to David, which I honestly need from time to time. Something that doesn’t have his fingerprints all over it, something that doesn’t have a “remember when” at every turn. But as I sit here, it’s as if a hard crust—maybe it’s a scar tissue forming under the scab—has taken some control of my personality and has me looking at things through lenses slightly less-tinted.
While I try to keep a positive outlook, the salt has been saltier, the bitter is biting, and the sour is worse than four-day-old milk in the sun. I look in the mirror, and I find myself struggling to recognize the person on the other side.
Sure, fundamentally I know who I am, but when everything seemed more clearly-defined, I find myself looking at a hand-written note whose ink has not dried and where I just spilled a glass of water. The words and thoughts are more blurred, and I find myself retreating into a bit of isolation both in the actual sense and philosophical sense.
I really hope I don’t come off being this bitter old fuck who is mad at the world because the powers that be decided to snatch his mom and brother from him way before the due date. I know realistically I won’t. But boy, there are times when I hear some shit, and you just want to be like, “Wah, wah, wah… take your whiney-ass away from me because you have no idea.” Other times, I just kind of zoom out and wonder if I am ever going to be able to reengage the room without trying to force it.
It’s all going to be fine, I am sure, and I won’t let myself get eaten up by the angered remorse. But I know the change within, and it’s added a new layer of “callous” to the epidermis: the skin’s a little thicker to protect it from hurt in the future.
