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Nobody Tells You About the Things You Lose
When depression makes people allergic to you
Nobody tells you about the things you will lose in the fire. You’re too busy shattering windows, trying not to breathe in the smoke, swathing yourself in blankets like a small child so you don’t burn on your way out — There’s no way out. Is there a way out — that you neglect to see all the things that mattered most to you curl up in smoke. Nobody tells you about the cindering. The ashes of the people you used to know left behind.
A man I once loved told me that I was impenetrable. That I had built myself a prison because I considered love and loss flipsides of the same coin. I would do anything not to hurt, and in that dual role of warden and prisoner, the walls became wounds I’d spend the rest of my life dressing. We sat on the floor of a beautiful, empty apartment and I said I have so much to protect.
When I was small, my friends were characters in the books I’d read. In Boro Park, I’d crawl onto the fire escape that overlooked the trees in the backyard and read about beaming blond women who wore pearls and had credit cards. They had names like Jessica and Lila and they were terribly sophisticated, while I wore sweatpants and blue jelly shoes and lip-synched all the words to Madonna’s “Into the Groove.” It was the ’80s, after all. I never had a…
