Don’t Ask

November 25, 2008

Don’t ask me how I’m doing, or any derivative of that question. You are not prepared, especially if you have any preconceived words of encouragement. You are only ready if you are not, and if you leave face soaked and silent. When you greet me this way, you force me to make a decision. Do I reveal that I sobbed uncontrollably for almost three hours the day before or that I wish that I would get hit by a train every time I feel the iron rails beneath my car? Do I tell you about the smile that I let creep through and the guilt that followed? Do I tell you that I lie awake in bed, scared and directionless? Do I challenge you with the meaning of life? Do I tell you that I am nothing without her?

I know it is not your intention to make me feel this way. I am more literal than ever before, and it makes me sick. I know you don’t want to hurt me, but don’t give me any Christian clichés. I’ve heard them my entire life. Don’t tell me that time will heal. Time, unaccompanied, is a waste. Don’t tell me that it will get better. How do you know? Have you lost? I’ve inhaled the books and the steps and the stories. I do not need your third party regurgitation.

Forgive me, but just don’t ask.

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