I’m tired.” she said. A full loaded and heavy sentence.
I had to ask What are you tired of?. She put down her head and replied thoughtfully.
How do you explain that you’re tired of the heaviness in your chest? Tired of the way it spreads to your eyes and your lips and even your legs? I’m tired in a way that makes a dark room feel like home. In a way that makes an hour long shower and a day long nap feel like ecstasy. I’m tired of the thoughts that run through my head and I’m tired of not having the security system up there to arrest them.” She lifted her head and met my eyes, searching for an answer.
What are those thoughts? The ones you say run through your head? I took a long sip of my coffee. She sat and she stared for a minute. I could almost see the thoughts floating, the ones she was too scared to give voice to. I asked if she would rather write them out. Because sometimes giving voice to a thought makes them all too real. I saw the lightbulb go off as she pulled her phone out and opened the notes app. She began typing furiously under Journal. It was as if there were a million things she wanted to say and she didn’t want to forget any of them. Her eyes darted from one side of the screen to the other and her brows seemed to furrow deeper and deeper. After about a minute there was a long pause, and then she handed her phone to me.
They say I’m too much, not normal, dangerous. They say if I were more normal and my past less of a stress I could be their friend. If I didn’t make their life harder I could be closer. And then others say things like you’re crazy and you’re a liar. And I’m tired of reminding myself that I am enough. I am worthy of love. There is no real normal.” I’m tired of trying to convince myself that they’re wrong about me. When really deep down, I feel as if they’re right. I am too much. I am not normal. And because of those things, I am not deserving of their time and love and investment.”
I looked up again at her not sure of what to say to the expectant face sitting beside me. I noted the fear in her eyes and the cuticles she had just annihilated. And what do I tell her in conversations like these? That she needs new friends and remind her of the same things she’s heard hundreds of times? Things like you are beautiful and worthy and strong and healing just seem to fall flat. So, instead I whisper, “I love you” and took her hand.
We took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee, and she lays her head on my shoulder. And while nothing is said, there is a knowledge that she really is beautiful and worthy and strong and healing. And sometimes, she just needs to feel rather than hear, that someone believes those things about her.
