It has been 72 hours and my parents yell at me to try and find my grip on reality but I can’t even seem to find myself in this weird state of consciousness.
I hate that they don’t understand how hard I’m trying to act like everything is fine; I hate that I sometimes will find myself clawing at my chest because a wave of emptiness will resonate in my body when I least expect it. I hate the sympathetic gaze I get now when people ask how I’m doing and I have to explain what happened–I hate that I’m a sob story.
I despise the way my brain is now wired to relate everything I once loved back to you, leaving a salty aftertaste in my mouth as I try to push back down the bile in my throat. Everything is too vibrant now, people are moving too fast around me and I feel myself feigning energy to stay above the noise.
It has been 72 hours and I have only slept 10 hours total; I stay up thinking that you’ll need me even though I know you don’t. I think I loved you, and I hate that part of myself. I hate that I’m making my friends worry and frustrate myself because I know that telling them how I feel just makes things worst.
And they tell me to cry. Everyone keeps telling me to cry, and I want to–but I can’t. I get close to falling apart but something stops me and it leaves me gasping for air, as if prolonging this is my punishment.
I’ve been told by everyone around me that it takes time–I don’t have that luxury anymore. Time is no longer an antidote but rather a looming darkness that reminds me how broken I have become in such a short about of time. It has been 3 days. 72 hours. 4,320 minutes. 259,200 seconds. In that short amount of time, I became numb again.