The Bonds that Never Break

0603141844

I left again today for Connecticut. The last time I’ll ever leave for Connecticut again. And it was different. Normally we hug and we hug and we hug. We hold on and it takes what feels like forever to let go. We used to hug and the hug used to get tighter. But today it didn’t. Today we just hugged and you brushed my back – “Text me when you get there.”

It didn’t feel like enough.
I tried not to look back but I tried to time it so that I would see your car drive away, but I missed it.
I only heard the screech of your wheels as you sped away.
Were you crying?
Are you crying?
Because I am.
The minute I felt your body slip away from mine,
the second I had to let go,
the moment you began to pull away from me.

I’m crying and my heart hurts and it doesn’t stop.
It’ll never stop.

Today when you showed up at the door, your eyes were a little red. A little puffy. And maybe I was only imagining it, but were those left over tears?

And yesterday, for Father’s Day – when you said you had to leave at noon for work and I wasn’t able to leave to meet you at our grandparent’s until 11:50. It was the most stressful 7 minutes of my life. I wish mom would have driven faster, I wish she would have floored it, ran the red lights and pushed the cars in front of us out of the way, all so I could get to you faster. I was so afraid you’d leave before I got there. That fear alone was suffocating, my heart felt like it didn’t want to beat and it felt like an elephant was stomping the air out of my lungs. I held onto your mail from home, so tightly like it was actually that important – like it was an extension of you, just because it had your name on it.

Frantically sending you text messages:

“We’re leaving now.”
“We’re on March, but don’t be late for work.” Wait for me, please.

The whole car ride to my grandparents I cried, I cried thinking that I’d miss seeing you. I cuuld give a fuck about Father’s day. The fear of missing you, of not seeing you, consumes me, it eats me alive.

And the relief when I stepped in the door and saw that you were still sitting there, that you had waited the 7 minutes for me.

Smile, pinch my nose and suck up the tears – just tell her I was crying during a TV show we were watching before we left.

This is a picture I took the last week when we were both driving the same way on the freeway. I stayed behind you most of the way and seeing your car made me feel so relaxed. Seeing you there, in front of me was so relieving. Things finally felt concrete. I felt like I could breathe, finally – and breathe well.

I wanted it to stay that way.
And the moment we split directions coming down I-5,
the tears came.
I wanted to keep looking to my left – just to keep you in my line of sight,
even if it meant crashing into the car in front of me.

I love you so much M.
It makes me lose myself,
it makes me reckless,
and it’s all worth it if you’re here with me.

Overshare

I have to admit, there is nothing about me that the internet does not know. There is often–almost nothing (but some things) that my roommates and friends don’t end up hearing about.

I can’t tell if it’s because I’m a drama queen, that I make problems out of nothing.
Or if it’s that I’m emotionally weak, and don’t know how to keep things to myself.
Or whether I’m just fulfilling some submissive, Asian-female stereotype of weakness, gossip, and inability to solve my own problems without talking about it with someone else – if even that someone is just sharing something on this barely-ever-seen blog.

Sometimes I like to think that it’s because I’m not ashamed to talk about real problems with real people.

I have to catch myself in my jealousy.
Just because no one else has a blog that they spill their secrets on – doesn’t mean they don’t have any.
Just because no one else tells me about their fighting parents, their once-suicidal sisters, their insecurities, their troubles and their tears – doesn’t mean that they don’t spill them somewhere else.

I have to catch myself,
because a lot of the time I share too much,
and people stop caring,
I end up hurting myself.

Their are no smiles behind Facebook posts.

Embarrassed.

I find it embarrassing to ever bring up that I see a therapist. There’s still this strong stigma about therapy, being the one needing therapy, talking about it in the open like any other doctor’s appointment. People never want to talk about it, or even acknowledge that I said anything – and I know what they’re thinking:

I’m too busy to have this conversation. I’m too stressed to listen to her problems. This isn’t a good time. I just don’t have time.

But what if it wasn’t a “conversation” but just a part of conversation? What if acknowledging mental health issues wasn’t just about listening to someone bitch and moan, what if it wasn’t a problem, an issue, a hassle? What if every moment was a good time? What if it wasn’t a “thing” that you had to make time for?

The only one.

It’s hard to talk to anyone about what goes through my head because no one seems to have an answer.
I’m tired.
I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired.
I’m tired of seeing things that are small, small things turn into huge problems.
I feel like I’m the only one who ever hears it.
But there’s going to be one day I let her down,
there’s going to be a day where I can’t fix it,
there’s going to be a time I can’t make it to her in time,
there’s going to be a moment when she doesn’t want my help,
when my help makes things worse,
when I cross that line and she tells me to get out,
to leave her alone.

I’m the only one who ever hears it.
The good-byes,
the “these are my last words”,
the “I can’t do this”,
the “I’m always sad”,
the “I can’t ever be happy”,
and it makes my head hurt.

My head hurts.
I want to rip it out.
I just want to rip it out so I can stop thinking.

I want to talk to someone.
But I don’t want to anymore.
I don’t feel like it anymore.

I’m the only one who ever hears it.
And nothing ever matters.
There’s never anything for me to look forward to.
Nothing matters anymore.
Nothing I do matters.

I’m so tired.

Proudly powered by WordPress
Theme: Esquire by Matthew Buchanan.