There was a little bit of time driving back from Davis early Thursday morning, on my way to work, where I realized I felt no weight, no tension in my chest. For a brief moment I recalled what it was like to carry nothing, nothing at all and decided I should savor it, because oh how quickly it would pass.
You get used to it: the taught pull, the ever present tension. A vague sense of panic constantly grasping on, a passenger you never welcomed, but one among you regardless. A demon (some ugly little shit) that just sits inside your ribs and pulls at you from the inside. I wish I could go to the surgeon and have it removed. It’s so physical, I’m certain it could just be removed. But I’d be wrong about that.
I think of Thursday morning like I think of that year Hanukkah started the day after my brother’s birthday and ended on Christmas Eve: a kind of sublime coincidence and cataclysmic celebration I can never recreate. And even if I could, I’m not a kid anymore, it’d never feel the same. But still I sit here longing to pull it out, to empty my chest and feel light for just one more moment. Because I can’t accept this, the way I am.