From the floor

The meltdowns come on swiftly, with very little warning and no notice. One moment, filling a water glass in the kitchen, getting ready to do some work before bed. The next moment, sobbing, collapsed on the floor, unable to get up, unable to do anything but weep with heart-rending pain and incoherent sobs. Willing myself to get back up on my feet, to get out of the kitchen where the sharp things are and just move. Try to push the meltdown away, not give into it, not give up for it.

At first, it’s about you, so close yet just beyond my reach. The mighty abyss of the unknown between us. The moments between us when we’re talking then suddenly lock eyes and there is nothing to be said that we can say because of so many reasons. I don’t know if you read these anymore, wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t. Maybe people don’t really like to read about themselves. But not being able to find the words to talk to you is one of the most difficult, painful things in my life. Yet I can’t walk away from it. I am trapped in inaction, waiting for you, the universe, God, somebody to push us together, or tear us apart. At least that would be an answer.

Then it’s you, the one I’ve left behind. The one who wounded me so deeply that it feeds into my inability to reach out to the one so near. It’s your voice that is the strongest in these moments, when I am at my weakest, when I cannot fight back. It’s your voice echoing through my memory, telling me that I will fail, I always do, I always have. And I can’t argue with it because I haven’t succeeded yet. Such terror that you’re going to be right and that I’m going to be here, alone, empty, failed, broken and you’ll be right. And I’ll have destroyed so much, broken so much, torn so much to ribbons just to fail. Your voices is so loud and still so fresh, it is what makes my knees buckle and what makes it impossible to get off the floor.

And there is so much silence at these times. I can hear my breathe ricochet off the cupboard doors and pinball off the floor. I cover my mouth, trying to regain some control, but it only makes it harsher, harder, louder and I succumb to it.

It always comes down to the choice – give in to the meltdown, admit that I was wrong to leave, that life would have gotten better and I wouldn’t have ended up ending it alone and in the dark, that this version of my life isn’t any better than that version was, I just don’t see it yet, that this thing between you and I is only imaginary because I can’t bear the thought of not having love, of not having someone, anyone, and you just happen to be in the vicinity. Give in to “what the hell have I done” and crawl back to that other life with my hat in hand, although that other life is no longer there. At least give you the satisfaction of being right about me for so many years.

The other choice – push myself off the floor, find a Kleenex. Fight against the meltdown and the pain. Know that it’s only temporary and imaginary. The weight on my chest will lift eventually and my breath will slow and my heart will calm. Hang on to the hard-won victories, however big and however small, and to the joy that has been introduced to me, thanks in a great deal to you. Accept that you and I will maybe never be more than this confused, conflicted, complicated duo but continue to write the hopeful, sappy, silly scenarios in my head where you or I or the universe finally push us to the point where words are necessary. Put “what the hell have I done” back to the other side of my life, where it belongs. Don’t give you the satisfaction of being right, because you weren’t.

The meltdown recedes a bit, not all the way, but enough to ge through the rest of the night, maybe. It depends on whether or not the circus music starts up at 3 AM or if the clowns are as afraid of the meltdown as I am.