transactions

i keep thinking that if i invest enough in my Grief Bank, i won’t feel anything when i make withdrawals. if i mourn my dog before he’s even left me, if i entertain every iteration of a breakup from a solid relationship, if i imagine i’ve lost the job i have yet to apply to, then it won’t hurt when it happens. i can’t fail this test, not after i’ve studied so hard.

maybe this is a standard self-preservation instinct; all i know is that i learned it in childhood and have perfected it through relentless practice.

and would you believe that it DOES NOT WORK? could you somehow expect that flagellating myself with vividly excruciating scenarios wouldn’t sufficiently callus my heart so that i am impervious to fresh wounds? that i remain as vulnerable to the cracks in my heart as someone who lets themselves feel joy without hesitation¹?

my therapist suggested i try to fill in the blanks with the best case scenario, because reality so often hews more closely to that than the worst. i considered this briefly, before replying that that’s a wonderful sentiment for Everyone Else. i can’t practice this, you see, because the worst case would come true just to smite me for my hubris; the arrogant notion that i could hope for an outcome free of punishment.

it’s a form of erosion — an acid that eats away at everything, slowly seeping into the foundation, the walls, the carpet, the ceilings, until the sopping, toxic mess collapses in on itself.

i don’t have a good conclusion to this, not really. just missing my dogs.

1. “Don’t Hesitate,” Mary Oliver