I am unable to get rid of the twinge.
It feels a bit underwhelming to call it a twinge. More accurately, perhaps, it
is a constant tug, a consistent drag on my insides, downwards towards
nothingness where I mostly believe I belong.
I fill my days with things I am told are good for me, and things I used to
love. I read a book, written beautifully by someone who did painstaking research,
and did it with love. And yet I find myself glancing at the number of pages
left, as if the book is merely a task I must complete.
I play videogames, my loyal and long-serving opioid. Blessed with friends who
share in that interest and a plethora of games at my fingertips, I feel the twinge
ease somewhat, momentarily. But, 20 minutes in, it returns, reliable as ever.
Music holds too much power, too much emotion, and it is too fickle for my
situation. I may need relief, and the music may decide otherwise. And I do not
possess the strength to control it, and so I abandon it.
And so I go about my days, working on autopilot, gaming because I always used
to, reading because I believe I must. And yet, when I turn in for the night,
lying on 14-year-old mattresses that serve as a constant reminder of my errors
in judgement, I know I have a battle on my hands. I must fight the pain, fight
the twisting of my guts, the churning of my very core, and I must sleep.
Because I have been told sleep is good for me.
I am not alone. Many I know have lived with this twinge for years, grown
accustomed to it, embraced it even. They are people I respect, people I love, people
I admire. And they are much stronger than I.
I must learn. If there is anything my parents have taught me, other than the
meaning of abandonment and a perfect demonstration of the decay of love and
respect over time, it is that constant work towards a goal almost always bears
results. And so, though my soul wails at the prospect of facing this demon on a
daily basis, it is a demon I must learnt to love.
There is some solace, at least, in that the pain comes with the fondest
memories of their three beautiful furry faces, living their simplest and purest
lives. Their playfulness, their sassiness, every facet of their personality
comes to life. And though it brings with it excruciation, I would never do it
the dishonor of wishing I could forget.
And so, though I know I will never hear the padded patter of their beloved feet,
and I know I will fight a battle every night before exhaustion takes over, I
remind myself that I must be grateful for having the opportunity to hurt in
their memory.
