Learning how to crawl
I'm learning how to crawl again. Since summer, I've been picking at these thoughts and feelings, dare say I've been outright depressed in the first couple of months. Loosing one's brother - not by death, but by what feels as betrayal - is not a very easy thing to deal with. I had a breakdown in class field trip, in the class room, in the office of my class head, on the tracks.
The tracks. We ran for ten minutes, and when that whistle blew, everyone dropped (what felt like) dead on the ground. I personally felt like I couldn't get up anymore (much of it having to do with a bad hip joint...). The teacher went around, asking for the number of laps, when that song started playing from the nearby fountain.
I cried for an hour straight, screaming, and falling to my knees over and over again.
And I kept on crying inside until New Year's Eve. Sitting home alone (well, with my mother and stepfather, but alone in my room nevertheless), I realized that I have to pick myself up again. Movement by movement, I had to learn how to walk again.
So that brings me to my current stage of crawling.
I started a new sport, one that promises a strong community, I took drawing lessons, I swam three times a week, I did... I did basically anything to keep myself occupied, and not thinking about it.
And yet, when I see my poor mother destroyed, it all falls to it's ashes, and I feel more desperate then ever to... to... to do something I don't quite know.
I thought about needing help, about just talking to someone, not my friends, not my relatives, but someone else. Yet it feels absurd, and embarrassing, and I know it would only hurt my poor mother more. I feel devastated, I think.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
Rinse and repeat.
The tracks. We ran for ten minutes, and when that whistle blew, everyone dropped (what felt like) dead on the ground. I personally felt like I couldn't get up anymore (much of it having to do with a bad hip joint...). The teacher went around, asking for the number of laps, when that song started playing from the nearby fountain.
I cried for an hour straight, screaming, and falling to my knees over and over again.
And I kept on crying inside until New Year's Eve. Sitting home alone (well, with my mother and stepfather, but alone in my room nevertheless), I realized that I have to pick myself up again. Movement by movement, I had to learn how to walk again.
So that brings me to my current stage of crawling.
I started a new sport, one that promises a strong community, I took drawing lessons, I swam three times a week, I did... I did basically anything to keep myself occupied, and not thinking about it.
And yet, when I see my poor mother destroyed, it all falls to it's ashes, and I feel more desperate then ever to... to... to do something I don't quite know.
I thought about needing help, about just talking to someone, not my friends, not my relatives, but someone else. Yet it feels absurd, and embarrassing, and I know it would only hurt my poor mother more. I feel devastated, I think.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
But I need to learn how to crawl.
Rinse and repeat.