June 30, 2020
The bird kept chirping outside my window, as if in response to my hiccuping sobs. I wanted to pick up paper to write about it, this contrast between something beautiful and lively, and someone so lonely, but the thought of taking action was painful. I knew that to hold the pen would hurt my wearied, trembling fingers; to find a place to write would be inconvenient, and the whole process of looking for a pad of paper was too overwhelming to consider. Instead I was kept bowed, broken, in my chair.
After a while, my sobs cease, but the chirping of the bird increased. He had never been chirping for me in the first place. Nature was indifferent to me, as removed from me as if it could not care that I existed. But although I was removed from it, I cared very much. I wanted to be appreciative – engaging in it – but I was stuck inside, cold, lying in bed… I’m too tired to eat the food I just finished heating up.
But I knew that the longer I waited to eat, the worse I would feel.
There is a series of chapters in the Brothers Karamazov that begin with ‘lacerations at’. They talk about all the places where Alyosha receives pain to his heart - lacerations - that cut him open and tear at his sensitive soul. I would title this episode of my life: ‘lacerations at my brother’s.’
There is a desolation in the realization that a place that you considered a sanctuary is in fact a desert. That a place you thought you could escape to was really a desolate place. I want my weak body to be OK with the fact that there is no table at which to eat, no hot water to bathe in, no couch to sit on, no regular bed to lounge on. I want my body to accept that cast-iron pans are not from the devil, and that large 2 gallon jars of milk are not a cruel invention created by sadistic people.
But you see, it hurts me to hold my whole bowl of soup in my hands and I need a table to put it on. It hurts me to sit in wicker chairs and I need a couch to curl up on. My whole body is in pain all the time, and the only thing that takes it away is a bath of hot water. But the only way I can get it is to boil gallons of water on the stove and carry them across the expanse of the apartment - all the while making myself weaker and shakier, and more and more increasing my pain. The 2 gallon jar of milk is so heavy that I spill as much as I pour into my glass. And the cast iron pans are so heavy and bulky that they are impossible for me to lift and clean.
I wanted to come keep my brother company, but I did not account for all these things that bring me pain. I did not account for the fact that I would be miserable. And the bottom line is, that he does not much care about having me here. He cares more for the friend who just returned from college, with whom he spent his birthday evening, and went to lunch without me. If he really wanted me here, now or at another time, he would do his upmost to make the environment comfortable – ready for me, and for my mother. But that is not his concern. He is living his life, three hours from my home. He left, and perhaps he does not want to be with us unless he chooses to come back, which he does from time to time. Although it is impossible for me to spend quality time with him at those times, for we are surrounded by many people and conversation is not possible amongst the small children. I am alone anyway, and I need to stop being desperate to retain those people who I thought would be there for me - no matter what.