Not crying at the post office
I’m standing at the post office counter while a brusque, detail-oriented woman types my England address into her computer. It’s $21 to send my mum a $5 bottle of melatonin, which isn’t available in the UK. She’s convinced it’s a legitimate sleeping pill that she can’t do without and as an insomniac myself, I’m not inclined to challenge her bubble’s legitimacy. My nights have been harder lately; why not make things easier for the woman whose bed I slept in until I was 15 because the darkness terrified me so much?
My heart lurches thinking about home and how inaccessible it feels right now. I was supposed to go back in August for a close family friend’s wedding but I cancelled my trip because of safety concerns at the border. It’s painful every time I think about it and I don’t know if I made the right decision because I’m drowning out here—sinking a little bit more with every bone-chilling week that passes.
I’ve become distant from a number of my friends in recent months and very few people are able to meet me where it hurts. I can tell their pattern seeking isn’t an inescapable vice around their throats like it is for me, even if they notice the patterns. Everyone seems to possess optimism I’m no longer able to access. Gratitude comes easily still, thank god, so my days are typically rich with beauty despite the despair, but I don’t know how people can talk about the future so normally and casually without feeling like their plans are utterly delusional.
I’m disappointed in my newfound pessimism; it doesn’t feel like me. There are endless horrors but my hopelessness won’t help with any of them.