Bye.

"The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity."

The year is over. Then again it has been for a while.

I hear the muffled sounds of fireworks and laughter coming from outside.

I just threw up the only solid food of the day, and the nausea is overwhelming. And the night is not even near over yet. 9:30 p.m.

I feel deleted from everything. I am nothing. I am no one. Am I even real?

...

What else. I'm dead, yet still somehow living.

I curled up in the shower today, because that's the only way my body could cope with the violent crying and the gasping for air. Somehow I was holding myself against a wall and hot water beating my back as I sobbed against a wall.

I'm dead, yet, somehow I feel every single ounce of everything in my soul. I have nothing to left to say. Nothing that doesn't involve begging and clinging to you like salvation from this purgatory.

I'll start over tomorrow. I'm sorry I am weak. I am sorry I'm not normal. I'm sorry for everything under the sun and moon.

In this part of the story...

I'm here again.

Mom has lymphoma. Prognosis isn't good. Maybe on Thursday they'll tell her a bone marrow transplant could help. Maybe I'll be a match. Probably not. Even if I were, my own body is shutting down. 

They say man can survive pretty much anything, except the loss of hope. I seldom eat nowadays. If I sleep, the fresh set of nightmares ensure I'm back up in a few hours. 

I'm on Prozac now. Lexapro never worked well. Pristiq didn't work at all. So I'm a Prozac human now. I wish I didn't feel the shame I do, admitting that I'm on that medication. But it's like I can feel others...especially those who I thought loved me unconditionally...looking down at me as if thinking "You're just not trying hard enough to be happy. To move on. To put your 'big girl panties on'. I am human. Maybe I'm not as strong as some of you fancy yourselves to be. Or maybe I choose to acknowledge my shortcomings. To accept my weaknesses. To admit I feel. It was between throwing up all day and night, out of anxiety and staring at a belt in the closet for hours on end...just thinking about how ready I was to tighten it around my neck...OR...seeking help. 

I am sad. I was happy. As happy as anyone can be in a fucked up world with complicated situations to go through. But at least I had something to look forward to in the morning. Something that challenged me to be better, to do better, to take care of myself. A light at the end of the tunnel. Because there's a difference in fighting to stay alive...so that you can enjoy your reward of utter happiness, completeness at the end...and the fight to stay alive so that you can achieve the mediocre life that's ok by everyone else's standards but yours. 

I am sad. But I still get up every morning...and for the first 5 or 10 seconds, I am still groggy enough to not realize what my life is now. So I relish that slight haze of happiness I feel. I am sad, but maybe one day I won't be. Or maybe one day I'll run out of tears. One day I won't wince. I won't hurt. I won't long. I won't be Yari. I pray for the day I am able to not be me anymore. Because at least I'll be able to act okay for the sake of everyone. I'll be the rock everyone leans on again. Quiet. Listening. Offering whatever's left of my heart in advice or caring for family and friends. Maybe I won't feel like half my chest has been ripped away forever. Or at least I'll hide it well. 

But, for now, I am sad. I am very lonely. I miss my best friend, more than anything else. I miss being loved, needed, wanted. I miss smiling. I miss not crying out of nowhere, over nothing. I'll continue to eat whatever I can hold down. I'll continue my medicine. I'll continue working. I'll above all continue trying to make my Mom comfortable and as happy as I can. I'll continue waiting for another sunrise, and maybe that one will make things bearable. Tolerable. I'll read. I'll write. I'll paint. I'll cook. I'll stare at the ceiling. I'll stare vacantly out a window (and yes, my thought will be on you). I'll cry when I feel like it. I'll get back up any time I crumble to pieces. I'll pray the Universe has some sort of pity on me and at least gives me the best friend that loved me and was happy to talk to me back. Because I need that more than anything right now in order to survive the loss of all else I held close to my heart. The way you hold a newborn that just fell asleep after hours of crying. The way you look at him sleep, wondering how he will look like, what his voice will sound like when he learns to talk, imagining his moments in life, wondering how and who he will grow to be. My dearest things are gone. So while I build myself up and patch up the gaping void, I need a hand. A hug. A kiss. A smile. 

I will continue existing. For my Mother. I owe her that much. I'd be a coward to leave her like this. I will continue. Hope is a foreign concept. Which is why I say I'm merely continuing. Not living. Simply, existing. There is no Yari.

Baby It's Cold Outside

Saturday.

Forced myself out of bed.

Forced myself to dress in something other than pajamas.

Forced myself out the door.

The sky was beautiful. The day was beautiful. Wince.

Sat down to eat my first meal other than saltines or soup in a week. Baby It's Cold Outside came on.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Holidays. Pain. Nothing. Pain. Three bites of food. Nausea. Tears. Pushed plate away. Went back to apt.

Back in bed. Still dressed. Stillness.

http://youtu.be/FTNheCEUP_A