see-through

I just did something they tell writers NEVER to do. I deleted something I wrote completely. Not because I wasn't feeling what I felt when I wrote those words, but just because feelings like I'm having right this minute need not to be strained through the spaces of old letters and words but to be given the freedom to flow as needed. Thus, the mass delete.

My birthday is in exactly 8 days. I will turn 30, and I have never not wanted to celebrate a birthday as much as I don't want to celebrate this one. And it's not so much that I want the day to come and go without decorum, as I want the day not to come at all. Last night getting ready for bed this realization washed over me with such force that I found myself in tears. Not the silent tears that stream in slow motion down your face, but the sorrowful mass of salty drops that surround a heart that is truly in pain.

I met my friend Meg for coffee last night and she noticed that my eyes looked sad. There is nothing more disturbing than to be told that you look sad in a part of you that you can't control. The haunt of loneliness or grief or whatever can only be hidden to certain point. And I guess mine boiled over.

I'm hanging on for dear life here. I am dangerously close to the edge of a cliff of sorrow that I can't get back on top of. I want to hang on, and the rawness of my fingertips confirms that fact. But I'm afraid that if things continue like this for too much longer, I'm just going to let go. Don't let me.