Joy, divided

I remember this moment. This derailing, deteriorating state that I witnessed and was surrounded in. I remember being exhausted, and talking to no one, and looking desperately out every window to see the snow, but I couldn't.

I couldn't even see the light, it was too foggy too much of a haze to even get a whisp through. It was cold, I was cold, but I felt my heart give defeated bursts of last hope, and deflate completely.

My dad took my hand. We don't hold hands. We usually link arms, but it was that immediate now. Immediate enough to hold hands, and he dragged me to two different stores, one was..I don't remember. It smelled like hotel like so much else that I remember aquiring to that smell. The other was breakable, like if I stepped one centimetre off course I'd bring the building down. Surrounded by glass, by tentacles that wrapped around my everything. My rib cage cringed at the sight of anothee telescope-esque eye discovery machine. I felt tired.

I actually can't remember much of what happened, but I do remember the man telling my dad that he really wished he could help me, that he couldn't but he felt terrible, and that I couldn't breathe, and my dad took my hand and walked me to the car in the dark in the snow. Both of us crying silently to ourselves.

I was lost. I'm still lost. When I turn around in a bar drunk and alone, separated from my friends I clench my fist and pretend I'm holding my dad's hand. I've never told anyone that before. I think I trust people too easilly. The one person I relied on through the following surgery has then since given up on me, crushed me, and now I'm sitting ten feet away from him and we can't even speak.

I live life in a fucking haze not self-induced, involuntarilly opaque, and somehow I still end up the fool. Smiling when everyone frowns, and crying amongst laughing crowds. My headaches pound from below my eyes and they complain about light strain or lack of sleep when all I did was get up in the morning.

I don't hold pity parties, but if I did I'd make them silent ones where you would only be allowed to laugh.

And eat cantelope. Copious amounts of cantelope. And he'll never read this.

(This unintentionally turned angry, goes to show I should finish a blog when I start it not three days later)
Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.