It’s hard to feel in your body how good a week you had when the week ends badly. Of course, it wasn’t all bad… but you know how it is sometimes. Last week, marked by the endearing, mostly light-hearted new entanglements in the Japanese Netflix series Offline Love, I was struck by the awe of the positivity radiating from certain individuals, despite whatever they had been through. It almost felt as if I was ready to love again.
And everything seemed well once more. Having just returned from a rather stressful trip interstate and settling down in the comfort of my own cosy home, my body turned to jelly. I was allowed a moment of respite after months of busyness and overwhelm. And what a great relief it was to experience that, if only for six days. So, how then does this translate to breaking down at church by the end of a blissful and leisurely week?
Well, if you are acquainted with my previous work, you may already have read about the sorry state I found myself in on Saturday night. A brief encounter, stained by the involuntary anamnesis I so regretfully had to suffer, begets this pitiful unwinding. But of course, it begins with the willful suppression of my negative feelings so as not to overshadow the post-concert highs. I held it together as I drove my friend home before letting an unfathomable fatigue overcome me. Or rather, a sudden onset of anhedonia.
You don’t need to tell me the numbness is a maladaptive coping mechanism; I already know that. I didn’t have the capacity to process it at the time. But I consider myself blessed as my friend was awake at the time to take my call and hear me recount my night. I’d like to think I was okay when she had asked, yet my night was spent writing, out of fear I would not feel good in the morning. And perhaps, I know myself too well, because it was a morning of forced composure—of trying so hard to engage with the sermon, and shamefully forgetting every single word.
I found it ironic to have sung ‘It Is Well With My Soul‘, and to have lied, remaining poised at the command to sit for the bible reading and sermon. Time stretched out too far for me to really hold it together, but a quiet sigh still relieved itself from my lips past my failed efforts to stay focused. Church service was over, and all I had to do was get through a few light-hearted conversations. Yet, I seemed to pass on the very first one.
My eyes blinked back tears upon being asked how I was doing. Both a considerate and harmless question. After a quick conversation about running shoes, the next person arrived. Albeit more perceptive than the last, although I had a nervous smile on my face, they saw my watery eyes and immediately shifted gears into a softer and more serious tone, asking whether I was okay. I couldn’t stop them from falling anymore.
Normally, I’d be so embarrassed. But in the moment, I really couldn’t care less. I was tired and in distress, somehow still hurting from events that happened over a year ago. Little nibbles from morning tea made their way to me through kind messengers, and I appreciated the love I had received from everyone who approached me. Church is probably the best place to have a breakdown. No doubt will you receive compassion and love from the people around you.
It’s funny how the weather can be so completely opposite to how you feel. Is there a literary technique opposite to pathetic fallacy? Because it would have described my Sunday pretty well. Not a cloud in sight, sun’s ablazing, while disgustingly humid. Drained from the chain of crying that ensued as each friend inquired about my well-being, I found it difficult to get through lunch. I was a zombie who had no appetite.
But I still had to show up for people. I needed to get into the mood to celebrate in the evening. Just take it slow. I just needed to get through dinner and karaoke. Breathe. I can make conversation, no problem. It really wasn’t easy. For the most part, I think I did my best to be present and “happy”.
In all honesty, I thought it was very funny at the time—what happened at karaoke. Singing Olivia Rodrigo’s “Driver’s License” with my friend and thinking back to when I was once friends with a girl, when our only connection now is our shared name. Admittedly, I don’t know the song very well, but it seemed thematically appropriate at the time. And when it was all over, the friend chimed in with, “Dang, who hurt you?”
It was an appropriately timed joke that made me laugh, but not before she got in more words: “Just kidding, we know who.”
But the sentence that made me cry was spoken by the man of the hour—the one who was being celebrated. He shook his head, sarcastically remarking, “Too soon, too soon.”
I saw the humour in his words and in his situation, not knowing all the details. He didn’t know that I had seen him by chance just the night before. And that reality stared straight at me, removing the light-hearted jests seemingly guarding my heart. I wept once more. We were in a dark room, but everyone noticed. Shocked, my friend was overly apologetic, holding my head in a strange hug as I went through the motions yet again.
I was overwhelmed, but I really did have fun. And I was grateful to have found those warm pockets of joy amidst the difficulties of unrelenting grief. I just wish this grief didn’t have to last so long. It doesn’t seem fair that I’m still being dragged back into the shadows by his hand—the shape of my trauma—while he gets to live his normal, unbothered life. Lacking integrity of any kind… but I’d never be with someone like that, right?
水 