I feel like a failure.
I think this while I am struggling to make dinner. I don’t know why it seems so difficult. I am crying as I am doing it, but this isn’t usually such an insurmountable problem. I finally settle on heating dal and rice from lunch and forgetting about a vegetable.
So I suppose my struggle with dinner sets off the thought of failure. But it doesn’t matter. That’s not the real point.
The real point is I feel like a failure because Nata died. I couldn’t save her. It was my job to try to protect her, to help her, to do everything I could to keep her alive and well and safe. And I failed. Utterly.
She was so unsafe, so unprotected, so not-well that she died of it. Her murder was just really completely beyond me. And it was terrible. It was terrible to be unable to help.
Sometimes I get these little flashes of things—and it’s usually like this, it’s usually while I am doing something else, my mind is wandering and it finds something all of a sudden—and a piece falls into place.
Because when they happen, when I get them, it’s as though I can finally feel heard. I can exist. My experience can be put into words and be communicated and understood, and in that way I am sure it is real. It is neither imaginary nor inconsequential.
It is my experience and it matters. As a result, I feel that comfort is possible, I can be folded back into humanity, I do not always need to grieve or suffer alone.
I can say what is wrong. I can explain it. And that helps.