You’re Here For Me

Online, on my phone, in person, when we’re out for dinner and suddenly you’re sobbing into your spaghetti. While I’m there for you, rubbing your back and petting your hair and mumbling words that I think will make you feel better: it’s going to be okay, we’re going to be okay, we’ll get through this.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We keep feeding each other those words: I’m here, you’re not alone, it’s going to be okay.

Words that don’t take into account late at night, when your body is curled around my back, your mouth in my neck, and it doesn’t do anything to stop the throbbing. When you’re there to talk it through — over and over and over and over — but no matter how many tears I cry right into your palms, no matter how softly you’re squeezing me when it hurts the most, you can’t take any of it away.

At first, I thought: it’s because you’ve never done this before. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up one day to the same world looking so different. Colors dulled three shades, people’s smiles soundtracked with screaming, instead of laughter. You can’t feel what I feel.

But is it?

What if you did feel it? What if we could discuss how much we miss the vibrancy — how grayish blue won’t do — how it feels like our hearts are bleeding straight up our throats, and we just want to melt right down between the seams of the earth. Would that make it better?

I’m not sure.

Maybe the problem is in the smoothing over, in trying to make it all better, in training our heads to always be turning from the tragedy, coating the scars with a film of honey. In repeating those words of comfort in hopes they’ll transport us back to that gilded world our parents painted for us as children. Where there was always dinner on the table, presents under the tree, sleep that came at night.

What if, instead, we started out by admitting it might not be okay? That life is brutal, and we really can’t be there for each other — not completely. Most days, we’ll nurse our pain alone, even if someone is curled around the back of us, because having someone there suffering beside you doesn’t really take away from your own hurt. That much of life is learning to balm your own wounds — or at least grow your own armor that makes it easier next time, or dulls the throbbing day to day. Maybe if we stopped facing things with distractions and denial, were brave enough to just admit, we’d be more prepared for what lays ahead.

Maybe then I wouldn’t be rubbing your back over my ache — we’d both just be there, hands clasped for what it’s worth, teeth grit for what’s next. Honest, alive.