I need a fucking good cry. Some snotty hysterical sobbing, complete with inadvertent dog noises. Because the numbness is starting to trouble me. I have forgotten how to be in a mood. I'm neither upbeat nor downbeat. I'm just beat. And it can't continue. I need somehow to access the little pocket of pain that I've squirreled away just beneath my consciousness. Because, I suspect, you can't get over something without getting it in the first place.
I am Martin Blank. It's not me.
Gin hasn't worked. Imagining how robbed my grandmother must feel is now an intellectual exercise. I should be in pieces; in fact I feel pretty together, but at the same time take no pleasure in this sensation. Perhaps, at thirty-five, I'm turning into a hard-boiled little orphan. I hope not. I'm too old to start smoking other people's dog ends and throwing stones at empty buildings - I don't think I could carry it off. Anyway, let the tears rain, because it's not me.
3 comments:
Grief can be sneaky. You think you know how you're feeling and one day you will break down.
When it does happen, and it will, let it happen. Let it wash over you because the more you cry, the less it hurts. It will always hurt, and the loss will remain, but it won't be as fresh as it is today. Time will heal the paind and the wound, but the scar will always be your reminder that something was there.
And if all else fails, a nice wine might bring it out! The hard stuff will just ruin your liver.
My thoughts are with you Tom! Thank you for yours!
Thank you, mrs mlb, that's pretty much exactly what I was going to say. Except for the wine. If so inclined, try a spliff instead. And no, I'm not being even remotely facetious now. Take care Tom Miles.
I'm sorry you are feeling down :-(
I came here after seeing your comment on Zona's blog and it made me laugh, so I followed the link...
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