a wise man told me

It's strange to find that sometimes the only thing that makes me feel connected to humanity is reading Ondaatje. Things have been so blurry and hard lately, for the past week. It is hard to be in the best group of friends I've ever been in and feel so disconnected. I guess to feel surrounded and alone at the same time. There are times when the pain in my heart gets so bad I can't breathe for a moment and I realize, before burying it again, how deep these certain wounds go. It's sharp lately, not an ache like it was last year. It's a stab in my chest at a time that makes no sense at all. It's this realization that if still, being with these amazing people who I love so much, I can't just let myself be I don't know that I'll ever be able to. And I can cite all the usual for this deficit- the poor relationship with my father, the trauma of growing up with a sick brother, the guy who broke my heart, losing a friend... but I am so tired of carrying these things around with me. I resent that the mechanisms, humor or confidence or whatever, have become personality traits.

Like I said, it was a painful week, both physically and emotionally. My shoulder injury has me trapped and dependent. The guy who broke my heart hurt me again. And every night I've been more aware than usual of how completely on my own I feel. And it's strange, I don't really know how to explain it but I opened up Coming Through Slaughter and started crying. And it's the same with all the writer's whose words have been in my mind for so long- Neruda, Eggers, Dickinson, Foer, Yeats, Browning... They all just make sense to me, and their words calm me down.

I miss Eric so much lately. I can't believe it's been almost three years... I miss his spirit, his smile, I miss his kind words. I hate talking about him to people because I can't describe him to people- he was just alive. And I resent that whenever he comes up people feel the need to tell the stories of their sister's friend's brother's friend who killed themselves. I get silent and fidgety and angry, because Eric isn't a statistic or a story, he was this loud, beating heart who loved so much. Maybe I shouldn't feel that way, but it was painful to see Eric's death turn into such a sensation here. I've loved him since the moment I saw him when I was 14 years old and I still love him and I swear that every single moment I'm aware that he's missing from this earth. And I don't understand why he made the decision he did. And mostly I wish he was still here. So yeah, when I get like this I don't want to talk about it. I just want to read some Ondaatje.