I am feeling strangely dead at the moment. Like a tree that died and collapsed in the forest long ago. And yet, there’s this panicky tightness in my chest that can only indicate feelings. Some sort of feelings. Some sort of aliveness.
Spent the evening with my parents. As I’m there it’s as though I can literally feel myself turning off. Pushing it all down. Dying. But when I leave it doesn’t come back. I don’t become revived. I remain in this deadened state. For how long? I have no idea. I wish I knew.
If I were to have one wish at the moment, it would be to be buried. Because I am dead. There is no pain; there is no suffering; there is no connection or longing or unmet desires. There is nothingness. I am existing in a void. If I could be buried, my soul could be at peace. I could let go and enjoy this emptiness.
And yet, here I am. My body is somehow still alive. I must move it around. I must move through space, when I feel I exist beyond space. It feels wrong. My body shouldn’t be moving or breathing or even thinking.
I cannot be around my parents and be alive. It’s as simple as that. There is no room for me, in all my complexity and aliveness, within the rigid structure of dysfunction in my family. And yet I still go see them; I still spend time with them regularly, and so I die inside regularly.
When will this ever stop? When will I ever get tired of dying?