Accidental Ambivalence

Truth Project: Six

Something you hope you never have to do.

This, like the last truth project prompt, could be an entire list, but I'll restrain myself.

I've learned, the hard way, that what if is the most hateful, hurtful phrase in the English language. The pain of wondering has to be worse than the pain that could be associated with finding out.

For almost five years, I've been saying that I didn't realize I was in love with Iris until I found out he'd died. I've been lying. To everyone else, and even to myself a little. I knew. I'm not sure how long, but I know I knew. And I was afraid. Of so many things.

I don't know exactly when I fell for him. I do, however, know the first time I acknowledged it. I was sitting in the exact same spot that I'm sitting right now, typing this. It was a Friday morning and I was home for the weekend, hanging out with Grandma like I always did. My mom called to tell me that Iris had been in an accident, had been life-flighted to College Town (the nearest large hospital). And I remember thinking that if he died, he'd never know.

I spent that weekend lying to myself, convincing myself that he'd be fine. I knew better. Because sometimes, you just know. And around 12:15 that Monday afternoon, right after eating lunch with a friend and telling her how I knew that Iris was going to be okay, I got the phone call that made me a liar. I fell apart.

Nothing has ever hurt so much. It hurt, physically. More than anything I've ever felt. More than a burn or a cut or an airbag to the face. I've never cried like that, before or since, literally sobbing. Those first few minutes were the worst of my life. Bradshaw was there; I called her and I think, in that moment, our friendship became absolute.

There are so many things tied up in Iris. Moments and emotions and fears and scars. The overarching theme, however, is what if. Never, ever again, please.

Labels: truth project

posted by nicalyse @ 1:29 AM