Sometimes, not every time but often enough, when I go to a funeral home, I get vaguely aroused. I feel so alive, so vibrant, so liquid. If not right in there, then later. The room is so grey, the gloom so overbearing, the people so sad. There’s this part of me that wants to defy death, to say fuck you, you ain’t got nothin’ on me.
Death is on my mind this time of year, and this year of course was something extraordinary. I know now that when I cry I do so because of my loss, because of the presence that is not there anymore. The person is gone, nothing I can do about it. I cry over my own inability to deal with the void. But I also know that by thinking about the ones that are gone, I keep them alive, I keep them in my heart.
I say cry, but they’re silent tears. I say cry, but they rarely get out. Rarely roll down my cheeks. My lack of empathy, my lack of interest in others, my avoidance of situations where feelings might get out of hand. That’s a burden, and a blessing. So much shit I dealt with as a kid, so many times I closed my eyes on situations I should not have gone through as a child.
In our house: junkies, thieves, dealers, dancers (hookers most likely, didn’t really question this), used syringes, empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, loud music at 4 in the morning, people sleeping or having sex in the living room at all hours of the day, no food in the fridge, mom’s weekly new boyfriends (and sometimes babysitters).
Me then: serving as DJ starting at 6 or 7 y.o., walking over bodies to get to the bathroom, having breakfast at the neighbour’s, stealing change in unconscious people’s pockets, spending weekends at my aunts’, grand mother’s (maternal and paternal) and sometimes at my dad’s (when he was not in jail), avoiding touchy-feely guests (surprising how many men are interested in prepubescent girls), waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of the unhooked phone, finding my “babysitter” stoned out of her mind, asleep, drooling, I couldn’t wake her up, I put down the phone and went back to bed (I was 5). I could go on, but it serves no purpose.
Me now: Cold sometimes, unaffected, indifferent. I don’t want to feel too much, don’t want things to get to me. A fucking wall, at which I’m clawing now. I’m not sure I want to tear it down, not sure how much I want to let in.
But I’ve felt so much in the last few months. I’ve felt. Hurt, loneliness, depression, hope, love, lust, friendship. I felt them each separately, individually, not in a mush of self absorption, not like usual, brushing it off as self pity. There is no such thing as too much awareness, I understand that now.
I’ve felt. I want to feel more. I can handle it, now.
