Ten.

Day 4, Word: Seeker

I felt like I was ten years old again. An index finger in each ear to as if the world’s oldest and most effective tools could turn silence into non-existence. Hiding in a corner of my room, I listened to the nothing, the deep, temporary nothing until my ears adjusted and I start to just barely hear the voices again.

“You know he doesn’t love you.” No.
“This isn’t what love is.” Shut up.
“He’s leaving.” Leave me alone.

Oh this was a bad one. Yep. Ten again. Still feeling like no one hears me except me and this spiteful peanut gallery, and that even if they could hear, they couldn’t care less. Ten. It’s been a full two decades since I last heard from the voices. Part of me is livid, another relieved. I chuckle to myself upon realizing they’ve become much better company now that I’ve been introduced to four-letter words. We both grew up quite nicely actually. I actually kind of enjoy them. They get some things right..

“You know he doesn’t love you.” Damn.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.” (Yes that’s a favorite.)
“FUCK — we are either fucking too much or not enough.” What does that mean?
“Love?” Shut up.

“He’s leaving.” Shut the fuck up.

When you turn 30, everyone wants to talk about life and love. The thing no one ever tells you about it though is that the truly fucked up ones never really leave you. Oh no, that would be far too easy. Besides where would they go? They stick around like a piece of snot wiped on the glass of an apartment building that everyone sees but no one wants to clean up.

Fuck.

FUCK.

They make you stick to them. What is love if not a sinkhole to swim in, swallowing everything up? These days it feels even my tears are adhesive. Maybe that’s why I like them so much.

“He hates me.”

The voices are in a bad mood today. They’re being cruel. They’re always talking over everyone, talking about everyone. Asking me questions I’m trying to avoid. Love is..

Patient. Love is kind.
Love is the saliva of a Venus fly trap, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Poor little bug.
Now you’re really stuck.

Fuck.

FUCK.

No, the truly fucked up ones will never leave you. I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders and brace for impact. The voices stop debating the merits of arson vs. poison momentarily. We all know what’s coming.

The ill-fated, never duplicated, the original love-hated: thoughts of my father finally break free from their cell. They pound against the walls of my head and chase the voices until we all wish we were dead. Well great, now I really feel like shit.

No, they never leave you. They want you to leave so they can forever grieve you. And you can live with that guilt.

And those questions.

And that regret.

“So now what?” The voices are back and they are unhappy about the sad ghost in my head.

“Leave or stay? You like looking for love more than finding it so why bother fighting it? You are broken anyway.”

Maybe I am just that. A taker. A breaker. A failure. Sad is the seeker who doesn’t know what they’re searching for. I realize my whole life is one big puzzle someone gave me for Christmas that I find out at the end is missing too many pieces to finish.

“Christmas?” God, I didn’t want the voices to hear that.. Maybe I can distract them with..

He walks into the room with a smile on that shines so bright it could marry the dawn, and he asks me if I want something to eat.

How can he act like nothing’s wrong?
Like we didn’t fight all morning long?

.. Maybe we didn’t. How long have I been in here? I have no idea.

Fuck.

Sure, yeah let’s get some lunch.

“What do you want?” he asks sweetly.

The voices are arguing the merits of Indian food vs. tacos. I try to answer all the questions at once.

“I said I have no fucking idea.”