She calls friends. She wants to see them. This solitary existence was never for her. They make a date.
Great then, see ya Saturday. Look forward to it. Bye for now!
Carbonated affection goes a long way.
But then, bitterness kicks in. Why was it she who had to call? Why didn't they bother to pick up the phone? Something inevitably comes up. Work, most times. She is after all a very important cog in a very important wheel. And she cancels.
OK then, no problem, maybe some other time.
She strains to catch the tones, but cannot detect any regret. No, they don't care. They never did. If they had, they would have called first.
Once she had to fight them off. All the friends, always calling, always wanting to see her, always willing to come over, always, always wanting to hang out with her. She gave off a certain warmth, people liked being around her.
Grief stains backwards; colours memories. Was it ever really like that? Can she hone in on one memory, one image, one feeling that would say she was once loved, once wanted?
No.
Once there was the solace of brandy. A half bottle and then she would take to the highway, watching the speedometer rise steadily, 110, 120, 130, 140, 150... She wanted to crash out of this non-existence.
She crashed. But didn't die. Didn't even lose her licence.
And now she is medicated, doped up to the gills. No more brandy. Not even wine. Sometimes your body hates you back.
So she is in St Anthony's twisting rosary beads between swollen fingers, praying, ...Lord, help me out of this existence, I don't want to live, I don't want to feel this way anymore, Lord, please, I am so unhappy, help me out, I need you, Lord, I need you, please help me, please help me, please help me, I've fallen so far, I've fallen so far, I don't know what normal feels like anymore, please help me, please help me, I don't believe in you anymore, but please help me anyway, I hate you, but please help me anyway, you did this to me, you never ever gave me anything I wanted, but please help me anyway, I hate you, I hate everyone, look what they've done to me, what did I ever do to deserve this?
Lord, are you there?
Can you hear me?
11 comments:
You capture emotions so well. I can feel the desperation, the isolation, the self-imposed loneliness. It's a spiraling downward dance that never ends without some major intervention. I hope she got some.
Nessa: It was about someone I know, someone I think is heading for oblivion. But I guess there was a bit of me in there too (isn't there always in anything we write?)
Quasar: Interesting how you took what I wrote and applied to Israel (now I am really curious as to who you are). As I told Nessa, yes, there was a little bit of me there, but it was essentially about someone else. And yes, I think it came about due to thwarted love, or maybe thwarted ego.
Jenn: We can't help but put ourselves into what we write. Everyone feels desperate and alone sometimes. Some of us just have a harder time bouncing back.
Sometimes I think you're more a master of the monologue than Robert Browning.
Jenn -- you wrote this so well I too was lost and alone ....
PTB: Thanks Bo. That is really sweet of you.
Quilly: Thanks. And you seem like such a happy person. I would never have guessed.
Beautifully written Jenn. Its nice to read something like this esp on a monday morning!
Jenn, now I am happy and upbeat, but for 14 years I was married to a verbally abuse alcoholic. Those days weren't so happy.
Grey: Thanks, love.
Quilly: I would never have guessed. Which makes it all the more wonderful.
Jenn, I am sure we have all felt this way one time or the other! You have captured these emotions so well and it's like...Hey, I've felt exactly like that once.
Iris: Thanks. Like tapping a vein of darkness inside, no?
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