noun-verb protocol.

i was sitting at the counter in the kitchen this afternoon when my sister-in-law brought in the mail. my mother opened the christmas card from me and my roommates with our picture framed in construction paper with glitter...

"jesus, lindsay, you look terrible."

"i know, i know."

and i went upstairs to finish wrapping my cousins' gifts. cut tape cut fold tape cut cut fold tape ... and my frustration began to build and collapse again and again as my hands wouldn't work right and my legs were falling asleep to the faint drone of my back killing me.

i went back downstairs and looked at the picture ... which had been the best one of me out of the roll we took.

"do you really think i look terrible in this picture?" and my mother looks up from her mop.

"no, i think you look really sad."

"well, i'm not the happiest person alive."

"you should be."

"oh, ok, how's that?"

"wouldn't he want..."

"this really doesn't... whatever."

"well, aren't you happy to be alive?"

"no."

and i threw up my arms and waved the conversation away like an annoying fly as i scurried back upstairs, tears beckoning.

"that's a terrible thing to say." she called to the stairs.

"it's the truth."

and it was, and it is. because i'm not going to lie, and i'm not going to shiver against the cold of my emotions, and i'm not going to paste it on so you'll be more comfortable. i'm sad and pathetic and damaged and morose and honest and timorous and ridiculous.

i look forward to the simple moments when my nephew laughs at me or a movie is actually good for once or i get a crispy apple instead of one of those mushy ones that look crispy or my oatmeal turns out really tasty or i wake up to rain on the window or i can hug my best friend without thousands of miles in the way.

but not a single simple moment is going to change the past or cloak my crumpled face. no matter how many times i smile in a day, that wound is still open and bleeding.

so what does it come to? me, flustered and alone in a small rhode island town, trying to pump understanding to my family without actually relaying any emotions. or is it just a matter of time like every ridiculous person tells me? or is it my hands, shaking, pushing on to release and form this pit in my stomach for as many goddamn days months years as it takes my heart to start walking again.

i don't have the patience to tell you how i feel since the words themselves aren't there, and have never been there.

and yet, each day, i thumb through page after page of the dictionary searching for that one word that will finally tell you that i hurt.