I have this constant fear that everything is too much, that I’m going to say something someday and those who are closest to me are going to tell me to just shut up, that they’re tired of hearing about pregnancy and pain and loss, that they’re tired of hearing about you.
I run away from things because of this fear. I don’t participate, I don’t want to make new friends. I don’t want to make it easier for people to tell me that I am what is wrong. I’m not ready for the day that someone I love tells me it’s time for me to be done with grieving you.
I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be this person, this shell that walks and talks and sometimes sings but almost never feels alive.
I live in constant fear that one day this won’t be enough, that one day I’ll be forced to choose, that inertia will push the shell to continue, that no one will notice I’m no longer there. I live in constant fear of the person I would become if I ever chose to live without you. I’m not capable of living without you.
There is iceplant growing on the cliffs by the ocean, and I don’t know why but I think this is hilarious. I’m thankful for water and living in California.
I love you.