“I have a feeling that you’re riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall.” —The Catcher in the Rye
I crashed. Of course I crashed. I woke this morning and the bright, yellow sun was blazing already. I felt leaden and full of fear like wings flapping; I’ve read bloggers calling them birds and moths lately and that’s just what it feels like. Someone else posted a photo of shirts saying, ‘anxiety is my cardio’ and true enough, it’s bloody exhausting.
It’s February, you see, and so the third anniversary of my mother’s death is coming up. Lots of bad stuff barely buried there. Synapse will be here with me for it. Might have to relax the rules and just get drunk or something. Eighteen days to go.
One of many, many things I loathe about death, is all of the conversations it cuts short, the mutual interests. Albums get released, books published and I grow angry. It’s horrible, sitting alone with a pile of stuff that should be shared. Music is a bloody nightmare, we shared a lot. Books too. Our tastes varied enough to avoid the book thing much of the time, but music, forget it. I’ll start off just listening to stuff I love that she didn’t (hip hop, for example), but soon enough, the guitars and ballads creep home. “You’re into harmony,” she said to me once, “that’s what you’re about.”
Someone I thought of as incredibly fine told me yesterday that she gets angry and wants to slash her wrists some days.