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| Christine Wong Yap, Unlimited Promise, 2009. Foil, paper, light, thread, shadow. |
Because I promised myself I'd write through
this into this right into the middle of it-
Because I promised I wouldn't shy away-
Because I promised, I will tell you how it is.
I will tell you that somewhere in the
end of month 6 I began to feel the straps
loosen. I began to feel like things would
be ok. Because I promised to tell you,
I will tell you, this was a trick. This may
come as a great disappointment. This may
come as a surprise. Because I promised to
write through this, I will tell you the truth.
I will describe the shame that comes when
here, months later, I suddenly find myself
sobbing like the early days. The tissue boxes
I put in the closet have come back out.
I will tell you that yesterday I sat in my car
before class, telling myself that I could do it.
That I could hold it together and go teach.
And I will tell you that I did. Because I did. But
I will also tell you that after class, I fell apart.
Because I promised I would, I will tell you
that the past two days have felt just like the
first two. Only now, I don't know who to tell
that to without sounding dramatic. Stuck.
Self-absorbed. Unable to "move on." I
will tell you that the missing of Gareth
has ripped right through my middle again.
And I am bleeding out in there. I can feel it.
Because I promised I wouldn't shy away
from writing about any part of this, I will
tell you about how I'm wearing his shirt at
this very moment. The soft blue cotton one.
I will tell you that it doesn't smell of him
anymore. How nothing I have does. I will
tell you about how my hand grabs at the empty
spaces at night, searching for him in my sleep.
Because I said I would, promised I would,
I will tell you that I think about how any of
you, any of the people I love, could be ripped
from my life at any moment. And I know how
that would feel. I no longer have to imagine.
I think about this. I look at you all and think
about this. Erased. Gone. Snatched away.
Who is next? I make predictions. I am afraid.
I promised I would write about it all. To
help fellow and future grievers. And see,
here, on this particular day, the grieving
ends. Because I promised I would be honest,
I must tell you that it doesn't end. It doesn't.
And the part that really took me by surprise,
the part that I find the most laughable flaw in
the whole system, as it were, is that the grief
does soften. The unbearable becomes bearable.
Until it doesn't anymore. A day several
months out will suddenly and unexpectedly
feel eerily like day one. Welcome back,
despondency. Welcome back, inability to eat.
Welcome back to the place where the
smallest things feel like the greatest chores.
Welcome back. Ah, yes. I've been here before.
And I couldn't quite stomach it then, either.
Because I promised I'd write through this,
straight through it with no regard to my inner
critic, I will tell you that inner critic is screaming
inches from my face. And she's not kind.
And now it's out there and she braces me
for what she says is coming. Friends who
are tired of hearing about this. You'll lose them,
she says. Near acquaintances who find my
honestly not only too much, but incredibly
self-absorbed. You know what they'll be
saying about you behind your back when
you see them in public, she warns me.
If you want to keep people around, you need
to work on getting a better game-face, she says.
Because I said I would, I will tell you that sometimes
I half-way believe her. That sometimes she makes sense.
I promised I would write about this. And I have.
I have kept my word. It is out.
Please.
Now.
Universe.
God.
Doesn't that account for something?
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