a fugitive's confession

exhausted ain’t even the word.

girl with afro sitting on bumper of old car, 1970 by Paul Kwilecki from Duke University’s Paul Kwilecki Photographs

usually, I find emotional refuge in words and writing, but now I am at a loss—a common theme of this year. as this indescribable feeling leaves me feeling trapped in a web of isolation and deep sadness, I am beginning to unravel in ways that leave me utterly unrecognizable to myself. after months of striving, perhaps pretending, to live by the four rules of fugitivity, my resources—facetime with family and friends, daily walks, baking— have run dry. I am at an impasse.

platitudinous advice to “rest” has almost become meaningless and frustrating to me. demands to still keep up, get on top of, or to get ahead of numerous tasks have yet to subside even as unexpected shifts in the world feel as though they are grabbing me at the throat. in fact, it seems as if pushing through is entangled into a language to gauge strength or deservingness—a prize for suffering in silence. truth is, I don’t want to be “strong” or to praised for pushing through misery, I want to rest. but I fear that the rest that I am looking for is not possible in this world. not knowing what the present or future holds, I oscillate between deep sadness and anger knowing that the fumes I am running on have to mimic my best at my best self knowing damn well I am not and perhaps will never be.

***

during my most recent facetime call with my grandma, Margie, she could sense my internal turmoil. affirming me in the warmest tone, she said, “I understand how you feel. I have never lived in a world that felt like this.” to me, her pause on the word “this” captures the everything that words could not even begin to describe. at the end of the phone call, she warned, “don’t let this silly world kill you because it will.” so I can only ask, how is a fugitive to rest in a world that requires her death?

Kelsey a. moore