Tummy ache

TW: suicide

My stomach aches. But at least that dull pain deep inside is enough to draw my thoughts aside, for a night. It makes me want to keel over in two, and I don’t know how to explain it any more now my period seems to be over. Logic and anxiety, they fight in me and seem to tie the tubes and muscles in my body into knots that no clever fingers can untangle. Perhaps they could if I would let them, and yet the only prescription that I follow to a letter prevents me from telling them, from letting them in, so, I suffer alone with this pain deep within.

Is that such a sin? Do I need to confess my darkness to be freed from it? But dying I am not, for better or for worse, even though it quite often feels like it. I don’t want to be dramatic and I do not like attention but the burning pain inside me seems to be something to mention. Not that I can help it for my face is like an open door, tells you all that’s deep inside so that you don’t need to explore. Most will peer from distance far, and keep their feet perched where they are, and others let you in their car, we wonder why, but there we are.

I didn’t wear my seat belt that last time you made my heart melt but I promise you that I never felt safer. For even if we were to die at least beside you I could lie whereas today although you’re gone I’m forced instead to trudge along. It feels like I don’t know it still, that you have left the world. I barely saw you anyway, so I suppose that makes it easier, on me, that you’re gone. Only I remember that you died, died by suicide, almost every day and I can’t take that from my mind. I agree with the new notion that we shouldn’t say they killed themselves, committed suicide, making it sound like a crime. Putting all blame on his side. When all of us know the many forces that collide in someone’s life and someone’s mind to make them jump, to fall, to die.

I love you in a way I’ll never love another person. How gradually it built inside me. How innocently it flowered into nothing. It just remained a blossoming bud, a possibility, a dream that I had before I even reached high school that never went away. The dream could never die, but you were just a boy, and boys can. I learnt that earlier on, that the world was cruel, that the best boy with the most beautiful eyes could suddenly one day, be gone from your life. But we came to terms with cancer. We came to terms with losing him, he was there to plan a funeral, he chose which hymn’s we’d sing.

Everything was different, the last time around. True the room was full and bursting, the tears endless and loud. But the songs we sang were different. Songs we hear around. Like at my birthday dinner, right after the Happy Birthday song in Frankie and Bennie’s my “family”, in name and not in blood nor substance most, distant, awkward, barely seeing each-other. Gathered again for perhaps the second, third time since we were gathered together with your coffin in front of us. And they had to play that same song again, loudly. My mother wasn’t there the first time, with us, she wasn’t welcome. Blind at the centre of the table, missing the knowing looks we shared, the tiny, invisible hand squeezes, the sad, silent sighs. She did not share the moment all of our heart stopped in disbelief, as we willed for the last chorus to finish.

We argued on the drive home over something unrelated.

I haven’t seen her since and I do not know what we’re fated.

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