Unsure

"when you remember the lives that have come before me- when you remember the sacrifices and tears and trials that made me- when you remember the beginning, and eventually, the ending, you'll remember yourself."1

Like the first struggling breaths of a man saved from drowning, I could feel everything flooding my senses. Some mornings were like this: You woke up and you remembered every last painful detail of the one person you could never keep, could never help. The person who was let down so far they couldn't begin to remember what the sky ever looked like. 2

Some days were like drowning, and some days, it was like it never happened. Some times the memories and the sadness slipped away and it was like being granted a moment of clarity. But there were always the bad days too look forward too, always those long stretches of wondering senselessly if help would have mattered, if you would have mattered.3

If, at this very moment, you mattered. 4

Life is a rush of detail and everyone is trying to jam-pack every sweet, delicious drop into a single moment. Experience it all at once, maybe, so that they don't have to wait. Rush it all in, live like you were supposed to have everything done yesterday. Numb yourself to all the tiny details and take the big ones in bulk, so that by the time you reach the end of your mad dash, you can stop and rest and finally take the time to realize you missed everything.5

That rush of emotion before the tears start is a puzzle. The heart seizes up, and for a moment, it's almost like you're falling madly in love with the whole idea of death. When the tears start, they're slow, like you want to cry more than you really need too. Cry because if you do, it proves you're still human. Proves you still care.6

Somedays, lying in bed and listening to life rushing around outside without me to be a part of it was a blessing. I always woke at least half-an hour early for this ritual. Maybe I'd lay there and pity myself and my life and say, "It's all my fault, it's all my fault." and maybe I'd forget about the whole scene when I woke up, look out the window and think, "God, today I'm alive." 7

But there were days when getting up was neither of those. When I was quiet and numb and wondering when I would wake up from this nightmare. When I really believed that there was something to wake up from, when I told myself, "It was no ones fault, all the systems failed, and there was nothing anyone could have done."8

The helpless are those who cannot help themselves. Whether they choose not too or have told themselves so long that they are powerless that they finally are powerless, they are helpless. I did not want to be one of those many.9

So I finally roll myself out of bed, stare at me feet on the chilly hard-wood fool, and think, "Why is it always cold in the morning?" as if there some rule that bed should always be more appealing than getting up. But I must get up, and go about my day, because after all, what more have I got to do? What else gives my life meaning?10

What defines me better than my job?11

And some days even that was hard to buckle down into.12