No one forgets what happens. The secret is to learn to live with it.
I have felt no need to write. Not recently and not for a while. And as for why?, there’s no definite answer, either. I am afraid of revealing too much. Of saying the wrong thing. Of saying the right thing. I am afraid that you will see that I am still hurting. That I still fall apart every once in a while. It hasn’t gotten any easier. Expecting something to happen does not guarantee it. In fact, quite the opposite.
I am struggling and I have been struggling. Recently and for a while.
There. There it is. Inhale; exhale.
I was going to write letters during the festive season but managed none of them. The typewriter I brought home a month ago sits on my kitchen table, collecting dust. I stored it away in a suitcase that it came in. It’s huge and heavy, and moving it around isn’t an option. The same way I am unable to move the heavy feeling that has settled into my chest three years ago. It has not dissolved since then and it isn’t any closer to dissolving. The sadness, mostly the grief and guilt, accumulated with time. It hardened into a block of concrete that I carry around with me.
I wish they’d told me this would happen. I wish I knew then what I know now.
But that isn’t quite how it works.