Everything is fine.
Don’t think too hard.
My eyes are closed. My chest hurts and that familiar sickness is back again. I want these days to be over, while I want to hold them in my hands for comfort. The Sunday is back. Morrissey might have had it right on this one.
We will be catching up with Strictly soon. LP will ask to put something swishy on and then spin about the room feeling every bit as glamorous as the dancers. I tell Seb about it in my head. I have these things stored up to convey. Just incase he can’t see. I’ll tell him- I’ll tell the sky.
There are photographs that mark occasions. I can handle those. There are photographs that are the moments themselves. Those are the ones that sting. I have had to be strategic; I can’t hide them away like a terrible secret, but the buzzer game of safely navigating the house has too many contact points. I have been back the beginning and it keeps still being my turn. No. Good try. Start again. This time perhaps. No. Again.
I’ll get there.
There is the notion that wherever I run to, I’ll always end up running into myself, so I may as well stick with the feelings- they just invade at times and I crumple. My eyes have never seen so much beauty product- the little pots of miracle cream need to work- I am a million years old now; I don’t want to look it.
This week it has felt like the shock of the first weeks has returned. Sugary tea required. I have eaten my feelings. I am emotionally exhausted. Chucking water out of a sinking boat.
Then I’m fine and laughing about the telly, or a WhatsApp or some really funny swearing on a podcast.
Proper loud laughing too as if to mirror the sounds of despair months ago.
We really are such complex little beings. Picasso had us pegged. Our skewed jigsaw faces rearranging themselves.
Even reading this back is wearying. Perhaps don’t listen to the Morrissey song now- it will set us all up wrong, he may tilt the universe too far with his misery hymn. Here, have this one too– for balance.