Karen Nicole Costa

Stop crying. Please stop crying. Please.

I begged myself on the bus this morning as I lost control while finishing “Blue Nights.” I knew it was about to happen and I was asking myself to stop before I started. This is not uncommon. Faulty logic. I always know when it’s about to happen. Crying, that is. Any loss of control, really. My throat tightens and I cannot breathe. I hold my breath, as if holding in breath and tears are the same. As if breathing and crying are the same thing. Sometimes they are. I feel that way now. The holidays zapped me. The strength and joy I feigned from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day has now evacuated my being and has been replaced with an emotionally frail manner, the ability to cry at just about anything, and an incessant need to sleep (and insomnia). I have lost my rhythm. I have no balance. I am off my equilibrium.

“Why is it so easy for you to get thrown off your equilibrium,” You screamed into the phone. You were angry, frustrated, and I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, to push me away, but you words haunt me day and night. I fake smiles and enthusiasm so you can’t tell when I’m thrown off my equilibrium. I ignore your calls and stay at home alone so the secret is only mine. This is the greatest secret I keep from You.

I knew it would be a difficult read. I knew it was going to rattle something inside me. I knew it was going to move me to tears. I knew this and I wanted it anyway. Something about Joan Didion’s writing has always fractured something inside me, cleaved my heart in half and (selfishly) made me question my ability as a writer (what I write is crap. I don’t know why you read it, but thank you for humoring me). I still wanted “Blue Nights” for Christmas.

It’s a story of loss. Her daughter died at age 39. It’s a tale of mortality. Joan Didion, herself, is aging. A reminder that the time we have on the earth with any one person is limited and that time is not a promise. It made me think of my mother. It made me think of B.

My mother, if I died, would she grieve for me? Has she grieved for me, knowing that I am alive, but without a pulse in her life? Of course she has not. You cannot miss something you never wanted. If I died, would B quickly move on and not mention me to future girlfriends? Of course he would move on. Of course he would not mention me.

And suddenly, I am faced with my inadequacy, my temporariness, my fleeting place on this earth.

Have I mattered? Do I matter? Will I ever matter to anyone? Have I loved enough? These questions now nagging at me, whispering in my ear, reminding me of my irrelevance. And at the same time reminding me of my luck-of the seven billion people on earth, I have been lucky enough to meet You.

The nights now seem a deeper shade of blue.