The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Never-ending Tears

pool-of-tears

 

Tan

Once the crying started, I couldn’t get it to stop. I’d held it together for months, confident I would be OK in the end; biding my time until the nagging pain stopped nibbling at my soul; waiting until the day came when I could forget about everything I’d lost. And then one day, after a series of small disappointments that wore down my resistance, I succumbed to self-pity. Wave after wave of tears washed over me.

I thought I would cry it out; purge myself of the last of it; begin anew, all fresh and clean. But the tears kept coming. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. I cried and stopped eating.   I cried and didn’t bathe or dress myself. I cried and didn’t communicate with anyone. I cried and withdrew from the world. I cried and relinquished all responsibility. I cried in lieu of sleep, and then I slept in lieu of crying. I had nothing left inside for anything or anyone else. The tears flooded through me like a tsunami, washing everything away and leaving only destruction in its wake.

I stayed like that for a long time, steeped in that ineffable sadness, wondering obliquely if and when I would ever turn the corner, if I would ever see the sun again. But it seemed this path of desolation never ended. It just led me deeper and lower into a dark and lonely place from which there would be no redemption.

I didn’t even have the motivation to kill myself, at least not in a purposeful way. That would have taken too much thought and planning. I was barely functional. But I was already weak. All the humanity had drained out of me. I didn’t care about anything, including whether I lived or died.

Finally, I got up, left the house, went for a walk and simply stepped into traffic. It was quick.

I’m sorry I did that to that poor driver! Even though it wasn’t his fault, he never did (and probably never will) get over it. At least not during this lifetime. It was selfish of me, I know now, and I will have to pay for that; but at the time I wasn’t thinking of others. I wasn’t even thinking of myself.

I don’t know how I could have done it differently. I was just too weak in the face of my anguish.

 

 

Note:

Normally, I’m not a moody person. Emotionally, I’m quite even-keeled.   I am finding, however, that I am tending to internalize the emotions of the narrators or of narrators about to come.   The question is: Am I channeling their emotions first, thus priming me for their story? Or, am I only feeling my own emotion and thus writing from my own psyche?   Or,  are my own naturally-occurring emotions just an entry-point for the narrators?  (i.e. since I’m already feeling those feelings,  I am more able to interpret theirs.)  Again, I don’t know.  Reasonable arguments could be made for all these possibilities.

Today, before writing this one, and apropos of nothing, I couldn’t stop crying.  Things which haven’t bothered me for  a long time suddenly bubbled up and left me feeling emotionally fragile.   Then I wrote it down and it was all over.  Back to my normal stable emotional state.

I do know enough from my reading on the subject of psychic channeling however,  one must learn to let negative emotions  flow through without holding on to them.   Apparently, (according to the literature) this can be a danger.   I guess I should ritually “shake out” the bad vibes, just in case.  I hate to get all  “woo-woo” but maybe I ought to burn some sage?

 

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