It’s like trying to keep a lid on it.
I’m looking at a near-mirror image of myself on my couch.
But with facial hair.
My younger brother sits across from me with his wife and I can’t help but notice how similar we look. A combo of our parents but favoring our mom more. We have really similar eyes and are both browner than our dad. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in years.
I hug him when they arrive. I lay out a small spread for brunch and worry if I have both too much and too little alcohol. By the time we’ve had a mimosa, we all settle into comfortable conversation.
I’m babbling. I can’t stop moving. I’m nervous and it shows.
“I didn’t mean to bring him up,”
I sit up in my chair and feel the weight lift off of my shoulders. I feel like shit-talking is like a balm for siblings. It helps.
I feel a release when I know we’re on the same page about things. That I wasn’t alone in the ways I felt. And having a sister-in-law who also knows what has gone down felt like a level of friendship I had been missing.
We go play video games and end up meeting out later that evening to drink even more. I’m giddy and exhausted. There are too many feelings to name and I think that’s the norm when spending so much time apart.
What I feared feeling needed to be felt: That everything that happened was real. That there’s a reason I haven’t seen my siblings in so long. I stumble over an apology, for once at a loss for words and finesse. This isn’t an event or poetry reading. And my brain doesn’t know how to mask in these situations yet.
I’ve cried this week more than I have in a while. I don’t know how to do any of this but I’m really trying. It’s the most I’ve ever tried when it comes to my mental health and it’s exhausting. I feel like I have nothing left in the tank.
My therapist said I’d feel tender after. I’m curled into my couch and my eyes and nose are red and dripping from crying. My entire face would hurt later for hours. I didn’t want to believe them. As if I had some expectation that I could fast forward the utter loss of energy I would have after the session. If it feels this god-awful, then Trauma Therapy must be working.
For everything that I can’t handle, it goes into a jar. I imagine the scenes and people and smells and sounds flying by my eyes in a whirl of color before getting sucked into the jar. It’s comforting and it’s silly. They asked what I’d do after the session.
“I’m not going to call a friend over. I just want to get better on my own.” I put air quotes around better. They don’t say anything after that and I feel like I’m being scolded. What I really wanted to say is:
I think there are some things that my friends and partner won’t be able to understand. I don’t want anyone to see me.
My need to be alone and to be a hermit is ringing in my ears.
