For the last three sunrises, there have been two jackhammers playing tic tac toe on my temples. I have started meaningless fights with my lover, and a hero died one morning before my first cup of coffee. Writing my memoir, I recall empty liquor bottles and sinks full of blood. I don't know what's happening, and there's no time to figure it out. I wonder how many hours have turned into days, have turned into months, have been wasted as years trying to figure “it” out. The earth keeps spinning, and the subtle rotation is making me nauseous. Gravity keeps holding me down, and I keep jumping, hoping one day I will float adrift. I don't think it's depression; there haven't been many triggers, I didn't see any of the usual signs. Still, it has taken prayer and starvation for me to leave my bed. A picture of my father popped up on Instagram, and I couldn't move my fingers to double-tap it. I do not hate this man, yet the unfamiliar face of someone who resembles me keeps me frozen in place.
Like, maybe if I don't move, I won't feel that familiar ache in my chest. Kobe was a father to me, even if I didn't realize it until after the helicopter burned and descended, a metal phoenix. Watching the Grammy's, I cried muffled sobs so I could still hear the performances. I stayed off social media for 24 hours, and disconnecting ironically made me feel disconnected.
Poems from Danez Smith have helped.
Unwarranted kisses have helped.
My boyfriend forcing me to eat has helped.
My mother's laughter has helped.
Warm blankets have helped.
Netflix shows with a strong family dynamic have helped, and one day, I wonder if I'll be able to help myself.