We Could Be Rats

It is strange what some people devote themselves to. When I think of the moments that I was glad to be alive, everyone was happy. I don’t relish a single second I was around anyone who felt miserable. Any time I had to face something sad, I did so out of obligation. I would never, for example, slow down by a car accident or a house fire to appreciate the wreckage. I would prefer to speed by with my eyes closed tight, humming.

One thing I really wrestled with was feeling like there was less love in the world for me. When she died, I felt a shift in the universe. It was more than her absence. I felt the cosmic void where her love for me used to be, like an empty stomach after puking. On top of feeling shattered by her absence, I felt less important with her gone, and also guilty for feeling that way. I wasn’t just mourning her life. I was mourning her love for me. When she died, I felt selfishly less important, and every time I lose someone, I’ll have less purpose. I will degrade in value the longer I live, until there is no point to me.

She always assured me I wasn’t stupid. She told me she believed I could do whatever I wanted. I felt the same way about her. I think we gave each other confidence. It’s occurred to me that everyone needs someone who understands them and believes in them. Having even one person who really gets you, and likes you, feels sort of vital for survival.

She and I used to talk about how a lot of life felt like that, like we were never the target audience for any of it, like we were always on the outside of something.

I know every family has its hitches, and that sometimes you just have to grit your teeth, but I think maybe we’re supposed to examine what’s wrong, or it festers.

I’m also of the belief that dying feels better than worrying you might die at any minute. Do you know what I mean?