Place of Leaves

I feel the panic in my heart. As it races and bangs against my chest begging to be let out and escape my body. Tired of me. I feel the banging now when I recall the moments when it set in. I am immovable unless I am shoved. I am poked and prodded to the point of collapse. And I say “no”. I say it with anger and I plead for the pain to stop. And when the “no” is combatted with a “but”,

I hear the fear and I feel it too. I feel the loss and the heartbreak. I feel the lack of purpose. I feel the inability to resolve and rescue. I feel the failure. I feel the loss of identity. I feel the fear of being alone. I feel the loss of connection. I feel a potential mistake. I feel the loss of community. I feel the heartbreak on the other side. I feel responsible. I feel guilty. I feel sad. I feel time passing. I feel disappointment. I feel like a child.

And so I say “yes”. But I do not try and I do not want to. Part of me does, but it is so afraid. Afraid of the proximity and the shame and the lack of connection and comparison to before it all crumbled. And I am afraid of what this is now. And what it will look like. And where the love is. And what is love anyway? This does not feel like it. But the frame says love and it hangs on the wall still. The glass is just broken and the picture tattered. Is it tattered? You can still make out the portraits, but the postures are slanted and smudged. Do I know love? It was easy before, a year ago. But now it’s not easy to identify. And I am afraid it is gone forever. And all the wounds, can they be healed? Because it is not happening yet and I have been here for months with the same knife in the drawer.

I panic because I am afraid I will feel better one day. I am afraid I will feel safe, and I didn’t let that happen. I didn’t take the chance. I panic because I feel disappointment in myself, that I could’ve been fine if I just did something about it. If I just gave. If I just received. If I just opened up. And it will be my fault and my life will be full of regret. The time lost, the years accumulated, gone and wasted.

But I am uncomfortable. And if I say “I will try”, what does that look like? Will I actually try? And if I don’t, why? And if I don’t then how many times again will say it before I realize I can’t? I thought I had already realized it but the panic invites me back in and I am left cold.