Time and time again I’ve told myself to let go, but letting go isn’t a science, or an art, it’s philosophy, intangible, fallacious, paradoxical. Forgiving is so much easier than forgetting and it is so much easier to hate than it is to love. So much easier to balk and turn up your nose at something than accept and let its image sear into the folds of your brain, things or memories you cannot have. Bad days are spent curled up in the afternoon trying to sleep off a twelve hour nap — sleep is when the burn ebbs away into something neatly imperceptible until the unprecedented nightmare of malformed bodies obscenely slapping against each other. Waking up to morning sickness with blood in my shorts. Sometimes I wish I had faith, to put my trust in powers that will surely resolve my problems with patience and a kind, gentle hand but I know I am too selfish and self-absorbed; I would take advantage of a god to fuel my sloth and sin, take the easy way out. I tell myself I must work for it — work hard to forget, to forgive, to love.
But I’ve tried so hard and for so long and I still don’t see an end in sight. Tossing and turning in my midday bed until the sheets have worn down threadbare and I’ve sunk beneath the surface in a mattress of a coffin.