A Clogged Heart

There is something wrong with me. My heart. It's not working. Properly. I tossed and turned all night the other night. I meditated on those things which were bothering me. They have me pretty depressed. Justly or unjustly, who knows, but it is the case. And as I was meditating, I thought to myself, "You need to cry. You need to cry this out. You need a good solid cry." And I stared at my wall, at my ceiling, at my feet, not finding any position of comfort. And though the pain that has swelled up inside me for the last several months has been dying to get out, now that I've given myself permission to feel my feelings, I find that I am unable to. That's strange. 

There's a mounting pressure in my heart. I can feel it. It feels like it wants to explode. But I can't let it out. I can't release any of it. I cannot cry. I cannot feel the movements of my heart. Nor can I do much else. I barely eat. I might have a banana so that I don't cramp up at work, and that will be most of what I'll have most of the day. When I do force myself to eat, either because I'm with friends and I don't want to indicate anything is wrong, or because I can feel a pain in my stomach, a pain that I acknowledge but doesn't bother me in any meaningful way, I'm just reacting to my body signs, it doesn't help. It's almost painful to eat. It's very uncomfortable. 

Nor is food enjoyable anymore. Nothing entices me. I'll walk through the smoky bacon air in the kitchen at work and I'll note I don't feel a pull or salivate. Sugar isn't as sweet. Salt isn't as salty. Everything is bland now. Colors have also dulled. The sky is always gray, even on a sunny 80 degree day. The grass that grows in my backyard seems pathetic. I find myself listening to my little brothers emo songs. Music doesn't move my body like it used to. Now it just drags my feet. I'm not as playful with my siblings. They notice, but I tell them everything is fine. I don't want them to worry. They're too young and wouldn't understand anyway. 

But God. Jesus. That'll work, right? I still go to Mass, but I won't always take the Eucharist. Not because I can't. I can. I just...don't. I don't listen to homilies anymore. Like the man on the mountain who is running out of oxygen and hallucinates and so cannot see that there are full oxygen tanks beside him to help him. I have distractions. Moments of emotional sobriety. An Anglican needs converting. Okay, I'll put my armor on. I was made for this. This is my purpose. To know, love, and serve God. Deus Vult. War path. My protestant friend wants to convert but her husband is an obstacle. Sweet. I will pray for you. I will lift you up in prayer, and mail you books. The battlefield revitalizes, but as soon as there is outer peace, there is no longer inner peace. The loneliness creeps in. The five or ten minutes between tasks I have free but have nothing worth accomplishing in that short period of time is the worst. No, when I lie down and tell myself to fall asleep is the worst. Everything comes back and the silence mocks me. I can feel my heartbeat, the pressure rising, and something is clogging it. I can't let anything out. Not my tears. I can't do it anymore. I've forgotten how to cry. And where I've forgotten how to cry, I've forgotten how to love. 

I have failed to love. Mayra, Ari, Chandler, Julia, Melissa, Teresa...Teresa. My ray of sunshine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't love you like you deserved. I failed you. I failed all of you. I regret that have no tears for you. Only an epitaph that will read, "He could change minds, but not hearts."