The moment you see something with your own eyes and feel injustice with all your senses, you cross an inner border, you know you can’t go back from there.
This is also the loneliness of not feeling seen. The isolation of not following the horde, of not always being understood.
But she is never coming back, and I fear that if I look in too deep, I will find that only emptiness is left. What crayon is going to color that?
I think often how Life got the seasons all wrong. Brent and I were supposed to bury Mom and Dad. Not the other way around.
Oh, melancholy. How difficult it is to describe you! I write sentences after sentences in hopes of capturing what you really are. The happiness in sadness? The reason behind the whole of life calling for tears? A blissful kind of sorrow? A defense of gloom without depression? A passing grief ...
Unlike the two-year-old who doesn't realize how important that answer is, someone with an eating disorder gets it. Gets that if she can just figure out how, maybe all the pain and fear and hatred and sorrow and guilt and shame and secrecy and torment could be gone. And that's all she wants. ...