So Many Things I Don’t Want to Think About
All of these questions sit inside my chest and I feel bloated on questions.
I feel a pressure in my chest but I don’t know what the source of the pressure is. It could be so many things: it could be that our country is on edge, or that California has wild fires and we are having another heat wave. It could be that I went to my mom’s safe deposit box yesterday and I opened it and looked inside and she was not with me. It could be that my son is missing out on his senior year of high school and my daughter is in college online and my youngest hasn’t stepped foot into their new school and I never leave the house and a friend of ours got Covid. There are so many things I don’t want to think about, it’s hard to pick just one.
I try not to think about Trump and how his presidency has affected and reflected this country.
I try not to think about my fibromyalgia and how the bottoms of my feet hurt and how I wear soft, fuzzy socks to soothe them, or stand on the tile of my bathroom floor to ease the burning.
I try not to think about my oldest and how she missed her junior year in Madrid and the Spanish literature classes she studied for and prepared for in order to spend the year abroad, which she will not be doing.
I try not to think about my mom and how she will not be here for Thanksgiving or Hanukkah or any other holiday.
I try not to think about the people who have unfriended me on Facebook because I can’t stop responding to political arguments that I won’t win. I am not going to change anyone’s mind.
But I don’t want to think about that.
I watch my dog walk around the kitchen in circles, looking for scraps of bacon or turkey he might find on the floor. The bottom of my refrigerator is leaking and I have towels tucked under the base until tomorrow when I can call the refrigeration company to come out and see if they can unclog whatever tube gets clogged and causes the fridge to leak. I read several books this week and that is good because I don’t have the patience for TV. It bores me and I cannot concentrate. I dream of going to Canada and walking among giant, heavy trees and having the weather be cool and gray, reflecting the deep, lonely grayness I feel on the inside. I want to go to Canada for other reasons, too, but I don’t want to think about that, either.
When I am writing, I don’t think.
Pen, ink, paper, fingers on keyboard — words fall out loosely. Sentences appear and thoughts form and waver and wiggle and unstick and get loose and then feel tight again and I have no idea what I am writing about. It’s one of those things I don’t want to think about: what am I writing? Who am I mourning? What has been lost? What am I praying for?
All of these questions sit inside my chest and I feel bloated on questions. I feel achy and queasy and yet there is a thrill to writing them down, seeing them in black and white, getting them out of me. There are so many things I don’t want to think about. So I write about them. Even if I don’t know what they are. I know they will come out of me. Then I can take a deep breath and my chest will feel loose and I will know, for the moment, I am free.