if it happens*

Hypothetically-

If it happens- it was a long time coming. 

People like to think of endings as impulsive- dramatic, immediate, catastrophic. Often, however- they simply arrive quietly. The slow build-up of exhaustion mistaken for resilience by everyone watching from the outside. Her days have been moving with the peculiar sense that everything has already happened- a déjà vu.

She has thought about it before. As a teenager, she romanticised disappearance in the way lonely young people often do. But back then- there was still this performance to it. A desire to, finally, be witnessed. To interrupt the indifference of those around her with something impossible to ignore. She had left the bathroom door ajar- and, the cat had wandered in. Curious. It was in the way he looked at her with those bright green eyes- the way he mewed and jumped onto the rim of the bathtub to play around curiously with the water. She had gotten out, dried herself up, and gone downstairs to feed him. She watched, as he ate his food noisily- blissfully unaware of what he had interrupted. 

Outwardly, she remains intact. Functional. Through the years, she disguised it as recovery: the career progression, the relationships, the careful routines, the stint as an expat. She arranged herself into something socially acceptable. Aimlessly rebuilt herself into something presentable. But- beneath all of it- it remained. The hollowness inside. Signs always seem to present themselves through everyday routine. It was in the unopened mail. In the untouched food in the fridge. In the exhaustion mistaken for maturity. In the way she increasingly spoke about herself as though she were already becoming memory. 

Sometimes- she sits in churches despite no longer believing with any real conviction. Silence feels less humiliating there. She carries on conversations with something she is not entirely certain is listening. Perhaps, faith is simply what remains when people have exhausted everyone and everything else.

There is a particular loneliness in being perceived as the capable and reliable one. People mistake composure for capacity. They hand her their grief, their anxieties, their crises- and, over time, she became a container for everyone's problems except her own. Always the caregiver. Rarely, herself, held. And, perhaps, the cruel truth is this: many people have taken fragments of her soul over the years while remaining convinced they had treated or loved her well. Albeit, she has no regrets. In those suspended moments in time- the people she helped; the people she loved- they needed it. Giving love without expectation of repayment says more about her than who they turned out to be.

There was this feeling, a few weeks back- she was sitting at a beach bar with a friend. They shared a bottle of wine between them. The bar was full of people- they had waited thirty-minutes for a table. People were surfing. Others, sunbathing. Children were jumping into the waves- playing- building sandcastles. And strangely, just watching all of this- she felt satisfied. After, they laughed at the amount of steps they had to climb up to get to their cars- still coming down the cold Sauvignon they had just shared. She hugged her friend and, she walked off quietly. An eery sense of calm in it all- her life. 

The feeling, though. It never really disappeared. That feeling- the same quiet finality old cats seem to understand near the end of their lives- the gradual withdrawal; the instinct to disappear somewhere soft, and hidden. 

But, sometimes- when the light sneaks its way through her bedroom window in the early hours of sunrise, exposing the tiny specks of dust floating like pollen in the air- there's hope yet. More is around the corner. She just has to be patient. 

*This essay was written to put in words difficult experiences that are often hidden behind competence and composure. If this piece resonates with you because you are struggling, please know that you deserve support. Reach out to a trusted person or a qualified mental health professional. Please do not carry these feelings alone.