I talk a lot. Maybe too much. I talk to myself. I talk to my friends, to Andrew, to the cats, to the dogs, to the wild cats, to the birds who visit the back yard and the chipmunks and the bunnies I pass when I run. I talk to Raccoon Cat and Possum Cat and the food I cook and sometimes my closet and anything I stub my toe on.
I have a lot to say.
I’ve got an opinion on everything and I’m a person who feels a lot of things. I have feelings about the weather, about politics, about what I’m going to cook for dinner, about the way Baby Cat treats Daddy Cat, about running, about the clothes in my closet, about the shows I watch, the music I listen to, the books I read. I have feelings and opinions on the choices I’ve made today, yesterday and last week and the year before that. I have feelings about most things people to say to me, about my marriage and friendships and about eggplant. I hate that shit.
Point is, I feel things. All the things. And I talk about things, all the things, especially feelings.
But not everyone is that way. And when things are really dark, or when I feel like my feelings might be a burden to someone I love, I don’t talk about it. And then shit gets crazy, cause if you keep that shit to yourself, you lose your shit. You might not know you’re losing your shit until after it’s been lost and you go forward with life (because that’s the thing about life, the mother fucker keeps moving, no matter what sort of shit hole you’ve fallen into), and then you look back and it’s like, HOLY SHIT. That was some shit. That I lost.
It’s just that some things are hard to say. It’s hard to say you’re angry when you’re trying to be supportive, when you’re trying to be a good person, and do what you know is the right thing. It’s hard to be honest sometimes too, to say, out loud, that shit is hard. Because it is. Life. It’s a mother fucker.
And sometimes it’s hard to say anything. Even the simple things.
There’s a space there, the space that grows between all the things that want to be said, that heavy burden that’s carried around like an overstuffed ruck sack. And once you stop saying some of the things you want to say, it’s easier to add to the pile until you’re buried under a mountain of things that started small until they festered and mutated into a beast of bullshit and resentment. And then it’s all nearly unidentifiable. It’s a mess of little things that merged to create this big space, this big, ugly gap and it’s hard to identify any of the parts, so you look at it and name it I Don’t Know, because you don’t anymore.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what my life will look like in a year, or even what it will feel like tomorrow. But I know that I love. And I hope that’s enough. I hope it’s enough to break apart the I Don’t Know and close the space between. Because I really, really love. More today than yesterday.