the loneliest truth

I’m a pretty O.K. sort of human.

I pay my taxes. I walk my dogs. I go to work. I sometimes exercise. I complain about taking out the garbage. I forget to shave my legs.

I don’t particularly enjoy most of it. But I chug away. Because eventually, I’m supposed to find some purpose amongst the monotomy.

And then. He died.

My dad.

I lost him, not so young. But not old enough, either.

I lost him tragically and unexpectedly and unfairly.

And while I don’t share that tidbit begging for your sympathy, I know in my heart I deserve a certain amount of FUCKING sympathy.

That sentence there is the crux of my grief. The pendulum swings between sadness and anger and back again with no predictability or measure. It just happens.

Whether I show it or not, a volcano of emotion lives under my collarbone and strangles my heart and strips me of my character.

Yet.

I go on. Visibly, pretty well. You still see me swiping my credit cards, and dusting the shelves, and being an adult. Emotionally… ??? I’m kind of a disaster.

I’m not the only person dealing with loss.

I’m not even the only person trying to stay afloat with this very same loss.

But we chug away — separately, singly, stubbornly marching alone to our very own melancholies. Even when we’re basked by the love and support of those who are still alive.

The loneliness stifles.

Which is why I’m writing tonight.

To let you know that I’m here. I’m hurting, and I’m grieving, and I’m so frustrated by the weight of the world. Everything’s hard, and the pressure is too much.

I hear you, and you don’t want to hear me, and that’s fine. WE’RE FINE.

And we’re never alone. Especially when we feel the most lonely.