it's one of those days

My suitemate, Cezanne, is off playing piano again, a sure sign that there's "trouble in paradise." We all know it has some sort of sentimental value, but nevertheless I never did understand what part of a person makes it so that music is the best, and sometimes only, therapist. Perhaps it's because I have not a single ounce of musical talent in me, and in some ways, I'm jealous of the obvious ability to cope.

My other roommate seems to just avoid everyone except the boyfriend and the therapist, and it's only an unimportant matter of time that she comes out, happy and toothy again with the usual bitchin' attitude. And lately, more often than not, there have no been no grey skies, so clearly, she must be getting better. And yet others deal by working out, painting, going for a long walk in cold weather. And most seem to just talk it out.

And me? I just think a lot. I keep it in and sometimes, I write myself temporary notes. I hate "talking it out" for every reason possible. I'm afraid of judgement. I'm afraid of having my emotions discredited. I'm afraid of putting a burden on a person who didn't ask for it. I'm afraid of being "that girl." I'm afraid of being misunderstood, and I'm afraid of giving people power over me. I'm afraid of a million things that come with confessing.

And honestly, I don't think I'm a troubled person. I certainly don't want to be seen as a troubled person, but sometimes, I fear I come off that way. It's just that I don't tell people things, and yeah, I see how frustrating I can be. I grew up being taught, "What you are is not as important as who you are." Perhaps I lived by it too literally; lots of people know who I am, and hardly anyone knows what I am.

Why am I thinking about this again? Because I think the aunt I spent an entire summer caring for has died--and I'm not going to prance around, crying my heart out, and "talking about it." It's become such a term, "talking." It's just not my style.

No one's confirmed it, but I feel it. It's the sound in my mom's voice when she talks about Vietnam and the absence of the subject when I call my grandmother. After hearing that she has gone into surgery once again, I woke up feeling a cold weight in my lungs. It's a familiar numbing feeling, a cross between the non-feeling of marijuana and the feeling of salt water from the beach drying on my back. Surgery after surgery, after a near solid year of her suffering, I'm ready to let her go. I'm not mourning, no. Because honestly? We all saw it coming. After years and years of death after death--Robert, grandpa, grandma, baby Frankie, Erica...--I've developed a coping mechanism. No, I'm not a cold person, but yes, I realize that death happens. It just does. Accidents, diseases, old age--I've known them all, these faces of departure.

And it's okay. Because maybe I just don't need to talk it out. Maybe I don't need to cope.