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Shit Got Blurry…

By February 19, 2013Depression

I had a dream the other night: one of those dreams you don’t like when you wake up, but the kind of dream that starts your day on a bad note. Wait, that’s not the right word: It’s not a “bad note”; it’s a funky note.

It’s that I made a fresh pot of coffee, but when I grabbed the half-and-half, opened the cap, and smelled, I’m not quite sure if it’s bad, so I pour it anyway. Those little guys float to the top… is it because the water is too hot? Is the half-and-half bad? What did it smell like?

Truth is nothing is wrong… but because I decided to think this way—that we’re gonna have a funky cup of coffee—I start my day this way in a kind of funky day.

I woke up this morning… funky.

Today was that day you just run scenarios.

Coulda/Woulda/Shoulda…

Today, challenge yourself to remember all the people you haven’t seen in a while and to picture them in your mind. Your grandmother, your grandfather, your best friend from third grade (who is still alive as far as you know), your mom, your whomever…

Try it.

If you can’t imagine their face, you resort to a specific moment, you hear their voice. What if you don’t hear the voice? You grasp at straws and try to make a background… until, all of a sudden, you’re funky. It’s all blurry.

This is time passing. This is healing. This sucks.

It’s the forest healing itself. It remembers, like the rings of the tree internally hidden until it’s chopped down. The lean years, the prosperous years packed inside each year passing the lean, making the previous an average of the last five. Tightly bound, only visible when the tree has fallen and only relevant to those who can read the proverbial tea leaves.

But the initials carved in the bark remain.

What hurts more this month?

My mother should have been 55 on Friday. David should have been 33 less than a month ago. Whom should blur first? (Come to think of it… both master numbers this year: 33 and 55…)

I feel guilty not seeing my mom as clearly as I see David. I feel guilty not seeing David as clearly as I did a year ago. I feel like shit having to listen to an MP3 to remember her voice. I feel shittier not being able to watch a video of David at all…

I feel like most people would say I am healing for not thinking of him twelve out of twenty-four. I feel guilty not thinking about my mom one out of every three days, if that… is that wrong?

Which one counts as healing? Which one counts as load-balancing? How much load can a single person bare, bear?

This is that funky feeling.

That somewhere between good and bad. Between sickness and health. This is going to sound morbid, but ask anybody who lost somebody before their time, and I will tell you the last visual you have is always that of them in their coffin. The next comment out of their mouth will be how much the person didn’t look like the person they knew.

That’s how you know it was before their time.

Maybe that’s why it has been blurry for me these last few days. If this is healing, it sucks…