We say goodbye for the umpteenth time and I hit the wall at 120, sliding down the barrier like a gelatinous mess.  It’s unfortunate that both heart and brain survived the collision; they have the dubious honor of witnessing the aftermath.

The ooze coagulates on the floor before liquifying, running in gooey rivulets into bed where it congeals for the next 12 hours, lost in dreamless sleep.  The black envelopes me in a cushiony grave and extinguishes the last of my blown circuitry.  I hear it sizzle faintly before hanging silent in the dark, satellite junk orbiting uselessly in space.  I feel nothing while wrapped in the darkness, and that’s a merciful thing because the infinite emptiness would only amplify the pain. 

How I long for those days when emotional numbness protected me from the world!  Weren’t they carefree, those years of blindly stumbling through the wreckage of my life?  I was blissfully unaware of the damages wrought to myself and others, and happy to have it so.  But now every nuance feels like skin being torn from my body. 

I awake to grey light lurking through the shades.  I hate the way it spies on me.   It wasn’t invited to my post mortem yet it stands outside the window like a gatecrasher, mocking me with its cold predictability.  I can’t stay in bed and lick my wounds; there are students waiting for me.   Instead, I pull on a cheerful mask and stumble outside into the snow.


3 Responses to “HITTING THE WALL”

  1. Is it really that bad?

  2. "Sister" Sara Says:

    Been there. I think sometimes you have to hit rock bottom in the dark before you can appreciate the speck of sunlight that surprisingly shows up, kissing you on your cheek.

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