Those of us who knew M are devastated. He was a beautiful, fucking real person and you don’t come by those too often. Sometimes we can talk about our feelings and share stories, but knowing that M is dead is a whole other story. How the hell are you supposed to wrap your head around something so terrible it can’t possibly be true? How come M and his five year old son don’t get to grow old together? No, it is not fair. It is cruel and overwhelming and raw and we’ve only just gotten started. I guess you do what you can until the weight of it all shifts a bit and starts to leak out of you. Out of us. When one of us can cry, we all breathe a little easier. We can start to feel again. We can talk about M and how hard he held it down, how terrifically he fucked shit up and how solidly he built it back up. Because one thing is for sure: we are in this together, and we can’t stop now.
I am S. esss. I want to say I have healthy and safe ways of taking care of myself and friends in times like these. I do, for the most part. Lately, though, it’s been hard enough getting food in my mouth, leaving the house, and remembering what it was I set out to do in the first place. It’s been hard to stay connected and involved in my own nourishment, on all levels.
I also want to say my counters are cluttered with fresh, vibrant fruits and vegetables; that my hands smell of chopped ginger and garlic; that at least my kitchen is a safety zone where all my senses are happy and sated. I want to say my friends and I gather in each other’s kitchens and make meals together: a choreography of chopping, stirring, tasting, tossing, setting the table, and enjoying the fruits of our time together…together. At least then the task of fueling our bodies doesn’t seem like a chore, maintenance work we must stay on top of in order to run properly. At least this way we have a shot at feeding more than just our empty bellies.
Truth be told I haven’t felt that way about food in a long time. My glass of wine is full to the brim, but my plate is empty. I open my mouth and close it around a bite of food, then I chew and I swallow. Sometimes I forget about the flavors, textures, and smells of my meal by the time the next one rolls around. This is a means to an end, a way to keep my belly from aching until I am hungry again. When my stomach growls, I know it wants food. This is something I can handle! And then what? When my heart aches, when I feel too drained to get out of bed, when all these other parts of me that I’ve disembodied are crying out for attention, then I’ve got a problem.
A problem, but one I can fix. To be continued.
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