Dear Blake, Numb

you + a sloth

Dear Blake,

I really intended to write much more regularly. 

Normally, emotions and words swirl inside of me until they're practically clawing at my lips from the inside (fingertips?), eager to spill out. 

And they did. I wrote a lot here. I wrote notes to you every day in my phones calendar. Until I ran out of words. 

Not just words for you, just so you don't take it personally, because it's not. 

I went to a few writing workshops, a space where I've never been at a loss for words, and sat there, staring at blank pages for two hours. That's never happened. 

I've gone almost completely numb.

That's not to say I don't think about you, because I do. I think about you all the time. I think about your humor, your smile, your snoring, your general presence. I've taken your spot on the couch and your side of the bed. I've neatly re-folded all of your band shirts, which I've been wearing to bed. 

I can't listen to The Smiths unless I steel myself. 

I've found black feathers- which, in all fairness, are pretty common because of hawks and crows and a feral cat that I have never seen, but I know is demolishing birds. But I've found perfect, smooth, unruffled black feathers. Apparently, they can mean that your departed loved one is with you.

I'd like to think you're comforting me, calming my nerves before I have a follow-up test, after a routine one came back a little funky. Reminding me that I'm fine, and IF there is anything, we will get through it. 

 I've started collecting them, the pristine, glossy feathers. Hi, punkin. Thank you.

So, it's not to say that I don't think about you, because I do. It's hard to explain *what* I feel, or how weird everything is. I keep waiting for you to come home furious, because I've given so many of your records away, or to ask me where something is, because I've moved it, or to tell me you can see all the bubbles in the wallpaper, because you weren't there to help.

Mostly, I'm on autopilot. 

Part of the reason I am devoted to working out is for the one hour of mental silence.

Usually my brain is a non-stop cacophony. To-do lists tick by, worries about the world at large, sadness for how we treat one another, hope for a better world, general daily anxieties, positive and negative self-talk, a list of chores and errands and projects that needed doing, playing a podcast or an audiobook, daydreaming about my bucketlist- and for a long, long time, plans for what we'd do when you were finally all better. 

But it was LOUD and it was not always pleasant. 

During my workouts though, all I can think is "this sucks," or "I can't wait to be done," or simply me counting up to 60 and back to 0. It's ~silent.~ A glorious quiet, a mini vacation from my own brain. 

It usually lasts EXACTLY that hour.

But lately? It's constant. There's nothing going on, my brain smoother than an egg, absolutely silent. Every now and again, my brain will follow a random thought and cook up an absolutely insane plan...a few months ago, I had multiple elaborate plots to convince various friends to move in with me (I'll deny it if you ever figure out who you are).

When I was getting scuba certified, in zero visibility, there was truly not a thought in my head except "breathe," which I suppose is the point, but the thoughts did not come back when I was lying in the grass between dives, or eating a piece of cheesecake in bed, or texting friends about my diving adventures and mishaps.

In a way, my scuba test is a metaphor for how I feel. At one point, 20 or so feet underwater, my instructor gestured that I was on a platform, and to look around. I shrugged at him, signaling, in some way, that I couldn't even see my feet. I know my feet were there, somewhere. I felt them standing on something. But I couldn't see them. I also couldn't see a massive rock in front of my face, the rope I was following, my instructor, or my own outstretched hand. 

And surely, I have lots of emotions, somewhere inside. I'm an emotional, expressive person. I'd like to think I'm more or less in touch with my feelings and thoughts, even if half of them are completely batshit. Currently though, I can't see them. For someone who normally bursts with words, it's a bit like being in someone else's brain, a sort of out-of-body experience I'm having while being firmly in my own body, in my own home. 

Even in the face of an abnormal annual test requiring an additional test, I seem to vacillate between "OH MY F*CKING GOD THE WORST WORST" and "truly, whatever, just pile it on, 2024," often landing on "whatever, I guess." I supposed it's not the worst train of thought (and I'm more than likely completely fine- my doctor isn't super concerned, except that I am prone to panic/medical anxiety/am having a REALLY BAD YEAR). 

I do a lot of mindless scrolling. I'm trying to channel my "bleh" back into reading, or arts and crafts, dinners with friends where I can ask lots of questions, but not have to talk too much about myself. 

For someone who usually has so many thoughts and feelings and anxieties, feeling like an automaton is a bit shocking, like being a meat sack, held up by bones, and piloted by inertia. It's when I stop moving that reality sets in, and reality is simply "weird." 

It's also lonely and surprising and sad and beautiful and kind and cruel and...lots of things. For now, most of what I feel is...a weird, wordless nothingness. That's not because of you though. Promise.