I think about being back in the stairwell, trying to explain what I had been feeling the past few weeks. It ends with him saying: “I don’t care.”
How do I tell him that every time I picked up the phone to try and console his anxieties it turned into sand? How I tried to write to him a million times but felt so nauseous that I had to lay down and cry for hours? How do I tell him that every night I dream about being attacked and cry out his name in hopes that he can save me? How if I ever saw him before this moment, I would beg him to hold me and how that would make this so much worse?
But I don’t say any of this. Instead I just tell him I was scared, and I hope that he understands.
“I don’t care.”
Would it have made a difference if I said any of that? I don’t actually think so, maybe not until it happens to him.
One morning I meditate for three hours trying to hear my inner voice to give me clarity. I receive it three hours later in a crowd full of people. She tells me that the easiest way to forgive someone is to think about a time when you desperately needed compassion.
I then consciously decide to give him the compassion he could not find for me that afternoon in the stairwell. I imagine him feeling the way I did and suddenly all I want to do is hold him and tell him that no matter what happens he always has a friend in me. Because no one in such darkness should ever feel alone.
Life is a game, but I don’t think it is meant to be about control or righteousness. I’m still figuring it out, with an open mind and an open heart.