If I Tell You Everything

I feel tears drip down my cheeks and hear them fall onto the pillowcase. I wonder: can you hear them too?

My hair is damp, my ears, cheeks, and neck wet.

I cry for the loss of normalcy my illness has caused in our lives. For the loss of your peace of mind. I wish I did not have to be sick, and that you did not have to take care of me. I wish that I could tell you everything without ruining anything, and that things did not have to be so serious. I make a joke and smile, but it still hurts just as much.

So many things have changed in my life–in our lives–and so many more things will change. But I will always have this illness, and the baggage that comes along with it. The depression and the fears, and my fear of those fears.

If I tell you everything, absolutely everything, will you understand? Will this heavy weight be lifted off my chest? Or will I end up feeling even more alone?

Because that’s what it does to me, this sadness. It makes me feel so, so alone. There is no one else in the world. No one, that is, but you.

With you right beside me, there is a distance between us, and it can only be bridged with words:

“I’m going to tell you everything.”

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