Dear God,
I really don’t know how to talk to you anymore, but I’ve been told that I should try.
Today I found myself with that familiar tightness in my chest (it’s no wonder they call it heart break) as I was struggling to identify to others how I’ve been feeling. We were all talking about communication--with others, with ourselves--and I realized how long it’s been since I really sat and listened to myself.
It’s because I know what I’ll hear. I’m a discordant medley of pain; grief, anger, fear and disappointment are all at war in my battered and bruised heart. Sure, I’ve been getting up every day and going to work or meetings or seeing friends. But that is all right here, right under the surface. When you scratch me, I hemorrhage agony.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d built up the walls again. Sometimes I feel like the walls are a good thing, a great thing, the only thing keeping me sane and safe. Because I never feel safe.
Ever since you took the boys from me, I’ve been holding on tight. I don’t want to lose anything more. Sometimes when I get this way I find it safer to reject new things rather than lose anything again. Last night someone called me, someone newly sober who wants my help, my friendship, and I could barely speak to her because I’m on emotional lockdown.
And food, the goddamn issues with food. Why couldn’t you have made me anorexic? Maybe not all the time, but at least when I’m sad and angry. Why couldn’t I be someone that finds myself without an appetite instead of being fucking ravenous all the time? While brownies or popcorn may seem to help, they are actually poison for me. Poison.
Part of me feels just too drained, too empty to be able to offer anything to anyone else. I’ve been told by those wiser than me that when I feel that way it’s because I’ve not been taking care of myself. Not making sure my own needs are met.
A friend told me today to go home and be good to myself. I am so disconnected from everything that I told her I didn’t know how to do that. She told me to do my nails, go for a walk in the beautiful snow. And to pray. She said that’s how you do it.
I’m so scared to crack the cement around my heart and trust you again.
That same friend said I should sit still. Let you come to me. How do I do that? Why would I let you back into my heart when you treated me so badly? How could you abandon me that way?
I’m angry to find myself here. I know it’s only been two and a half months--only a little less than half the time I was pregnant. I thought I was feeling so much better. I was wrong.
This letter to you is only an exercise, an attempt to make contact. But be careful if you show up. I can scream, and scream loud, and I have some things to say to you. If you were standing before me, I’d hit you. I want to tell you to go away, to leave me alone. When I listen to myself, all I hear is screaming.
In truth, I want to beg you to stay. Because even with my beloved standing here with me, my amazing friends, my internet support team--I have never felt so fucking alone.
So stay here, you bastard. Stay here and make this better. Because it hurts so goddamned much.
