death & all its friends

What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck? 

I'm not eating. I'm not sleeping. The dread is back again- the feeling that I should just put one big wrench in the wheels already turning. But I've been told, yet again, that I'm acting out of fear. 

Everything is deteriorating in slow motion before my eyes. My house constantly feels like it's one minor inconvenience away from collapsing. And sometimes, I think about pulling that final stone from the foundation myself. There are dishes in the sink again. But there are always dishes in the sink. The laundry basket has become a monument to my avoidance. There hasn't been food in my fridge for over a month. I don't eat unless someone cooks for me. Work drains me so thoroughly that sometimes I sit in my car for twenty minutes after arriving home because the idea of walking through the front door and immediately becoming responsible for everything again makes my chest tighten. 

And somehow- somehow- in the middle of all this, I am still expected to be desirable. Functional. Pleasant to speak to. Emotionally available. A modern woman.

What a ridiculous phrase. 

Somewhere along the way, this “strong independent woman” act stopped empowering me. It instead highlights the reality I face: I have to do it all alone. No one is going to help me. Regardless, no one would help me. The adage goes: in life we're born alone, we live alone, and we die alone. The mantra of this era is to learn to live independently; to put yourself first. I think- I think I hate it. 

Three years- I was running away from everything. I was ignorant. In bliss. Far removed from this reality I am now living in. I predicted this. Perhaps, even manifested it. My life nowadays feels like a performance- an administrative one. Last week, I hid in the bathroom hoping no one would find me. I cannot keep up. I have no excuse now, I can afford it. But, did I pay the electricity bill? My mother said: "Well, at least you're losing weight."

Amsterdam, last weekend- it reminded me of everything that now isn't. Before coming back, I used to scroll through apartment listings there- as though proximity to possibility alone could alter the trajectory of my future. I had already begun arranging myself mentally inside that city. Which tram line I would take. Which cafés I would frequent. The shape my mornings might assume there. Strange, how grief can exist for places we never truly belonged to. I thought about the version of me that almost existed there. That version of myself- she now feels suspended somewhere between imagination, longing, and memory. A phantom of a life that, in the end, I made the conscious decision not to choose. 

But, really, would I have been happier?

My friends there barely manage to enjoy their lives beyond survival. Their salaries disappear almost as quickly as they're cashed in. And yes, speaking from experience- I too, for three years, had my mind occupied by money woes with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Every purchase carried calculation behind it. Every moment of enjoyment arrived accompanied by a full-bodied Syrah of guilt. The worst, though, were the unnerving feelings that I never fully managed to silence. First, it was the displacement- never truly belonging, even in a community of people who loved and cared for you. And, worse, the persistent awareness that I existed too far away from the people whose ageing I could already feel happening without me. The guilt of missed birthdays. Hospital visits relayed through phone screens. The uncomfortable realisation that while I was busy trying to build a life abroad, life at home had continued crumbling in my absence.

Kahlo once portrayed herself with nails driven into her skin. With flowers braided into her thick, brown hair. And perhaps, that elegant exhaustion of expectation- that we women must remain docile in the face of all this adversity- is what resonated with me most. And like a woman, I must maintain the house. Serve out my duty. The one I'm failing comically at. But, the damned house does weigh heavily on my mind. 

The walls have absorbed too many years of tension. The paint crumbles off the limestone. Things keep breaking in small, unremarkable ways. A leaking tap. A lightbulb dying. Doors that no longer close properly unless forced. None of it catastrophic enough to demand urgency. Just constant maintenance. Constant tending. Constant reminders that neglect accumulates quietly. The slow accumulation of things left unattended because everyone inside is already too tired to carry one more responsibility. 

Lately, I keep being reminded about how privileged my position supposedly is. One of the juniors at work, just last week: "you don't feel the office politics because it's only you they can turn to."  My friends in Luxembourg and Amsterdam, well- they say they're impressed. That the air about me feels lighter- that I'm glowing. And, I often hear this word being thrown around about me: impressive. "Go girl, go!" But this- it all actually and really makes me want to constantly vomit. This comfort is not promised. And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. In all aspects of my life. The Albatross- it's always hanging around my neck. 

I'm ignoring the physical warning signs, now. I was told to handle this in July 2025. I didn't. I'm still not handling this. I didn't take it seriously. It's this feeling of knowing you're shutting down and not functioning at full capacity- knowing there are only a few fumes left to rely on to get you to that finish line- and doing nothing about it. Ignore it. Kill it. It's not there- you don't have the time for this. And, if I do rest, my mind will run free- it will sicken itself with its own thoughts. I like to keep busy. To distract myself before thought has the opportunity to deepen into something uglier. I like to avoid myself. I like to avoid difficult conversations. And yet, yet here I am- adding another thing to my "to-do" list. I am also attempting to remain emotionally regulated in view of all the aspects of my life: professional, family, social, and love. Love. Bah. Here we are again. But enough on that. None of my problems- individually- seem catastrophic enough to justify this sensation of utter and complete overwhelm. C'est la vie. Always, c'est la vie. 

A few Saturdays ago- insomnia got the better of me. I tumbled out of bed early (for once) that morning. I washed my face. I brushed my teeth. No coffee. I just drove to the coast, absentmindedly. On that particular morning, the visibility of the air stretched far enough for Etna to appear beyond the water. And I watched her on the horizon- smouldering quietly. She does not belong to any stillness- but you could sense her impending violence from a distance; the potential destruction she could leave in her wake at any given moment. She's not as calm as she seems- she's intrinsically restless. In her, I found mutual understanding.  Profound, I know. But again, verging on the pretentious. 

And now, the sense of an ending of it all. 

Is another one coming? 

The hospital had its usual smells- disinfectant, stale air, overwashed sheets. But, beneath all of that- there was this unmistakable scent of the body beginning to surrender slowly to time. Ageing is not always so dramatic- I'm the only one making it seem so. It's unassuming at first. And then, on one random afternoon in summer, you're barely able to recognise the shape of your own name. 

Someone has yet again asked me why I came back to this. Well, I always reply the same- because the answer and the reality have remained the same- the responsibility of an only child is unequivocal. Hospitals have this way about them- that disgusting fluorescent lighting reveals all. You can watch it on your loved ones' faces in high definition: the emotional unravelling. Yet, no one mentioned it- the word "death". But, my body recognises its inevitability. I find myself mentally preparing for it daily- the grief that will follow, and the pieces of the family I will have to mosaic back together when the patriarch falls. 

Nothing lasts forever, I suppose.