This morning I sit and watch as G-d rips my heart from my chest and devours it in front of me like it were a mere pomegranate. I do not know why it does this. I am left with an emptiness, a longing for something that, without my heart, I am unable to put into words. I went to the pharmacy and picked up my medication. I felt physical pain for the man crying because no one would give him his pills. I cried on the way home, but I also picked some purple flowers from the cracks in the sidewalk. I cried harder because I so badly want to be that purple flower. Growing from concrete, resilient, and beautiful. I wanted someone to pick me, I wanted someone to do what I did and protect me. Press me between the pages of a diary, love me long after I’ve wilted.
I tote my eye for beauty around like it is a gift and nothing more than that. But it is a burden, maybe as much so as it is a gift. Things get more complicated when you can see something worthwhile sprouting from pain. If pain is so bad, why is it so beautiful? Why do I feel my prettiest when I’m dry heaving with snot running down my face? Maybe that’s not true. Maybe I just appreciate my own rawness, my ability to be vulnerable without anyone else there to witness it and testify that yes, I do have emotions, and yes, I do express them in a somewhat healthy and natural manner. A win is a win, even if no one else is around to experience it. It’s okay to grow in silence. It’s okay to gatekeep your progress, to protect what you’re proud of.
Juice drips down G-d’s hands, running down its wrist and onto my carpet. Dare I say I wish to lap it up like it’s an oasis in the desert. But I don’t. I ignore it and grow a new heart, just like I do every day. The vision fades, I smoke a bowl, and I am at peace. I remember that I have no purpose, I am not put here to do anything. So today, to honor such direction (or lack of), I will be doing jack shit. As a moral perfectionist, I find I need to remind myself that by doing nothing, I am not fucking up. I’m not wasting away, I am resting. I search for peace beneath my covers and in the folds of my sheets. I search for it in a box of stale crackers. Eventually, and to my surprise, I’ve found it. I find it in the calm after the storm, rain still dripping from branches and runoff rushing down the street into the sewer grate. The sun peaks out, and the droplets glimmer and shine. I find peace in knowing that everyone else on this planet has their own little version of sanctuary. Maybe it’s art, maybe it’s drugs. Maybe it’s their bed after a long day. Maybe their sanctuary is nothing but escapism, but that’s none of my business. If it helps you rest, if it relieves even the slightest amount of pain, then I am in support of it, because I am in no place to judge someone on how they find their peace.
I am okay continuing to grow through the cracks in the sidewalk. I am okay being the other purple flowers that I did not pluck today. I am okay. I find joy in waking up and grappling with the fact that my existence proceeds another day. I love to watch G-d eat my heart every morning. When my coffee is lukewarm, I smile.
“Life tried to chew me up and shit me out but I’m built like corn.”
Phrenectomy 