So I’m home.
The day was okay. It wasn’t great. It was okay.
After school, I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. I used to see her at the holy site all the time. We didn’t talk much, but she feels like I know her. Anyway, I went to her house then. She gave me a popsicle and coffee. Not together though, separately.
Then I came home. When I got home, I was overwhelmed by this feeling of just wanting to die. Everyone else is dead. I don’t see why I ought to go on living. It’s really just an enormous feeling.
I know it has to be processed. This simply has to be done. I need to stay warm in some way and sit with this feeling until it works through to something else, which in the end it always does. I feel these horrible, horrible things and if I go on with them long enough, I end up feeling okay. That’s the hard truth about it: it’s necessary. It has to be done.
But I wish, as I’m trying to sit with it—and I wish this very fervently—for some kind of anchor. Someone to sit with me while I do it or something that seems worthwhile enough while I’m feeling this way that I sort of don’t feel that way, that would make me both feel that way and not feel that way together, instead of only having the overwhelming feeling of just not wanting to live anymore.
And I think I wish I could be understood. I think I wish it could be understood how it felt when everyone died. That it’s that not life can’t be okay again, or that you think that there will never be anyone else to love, but that the people you lost are irreplaceable. Each of them is.
I wish there were one person I could tell that to and they would know: It is just how it feels. You feel you don’t want to go on anymore. It just is. I wish I could say that. I wish it seemed okay just to feel.