Weep With Me
I’m okay. We’re okay. It’s okay. ❤️
This is what I replied to the texts asking if I was alive after the shootings at Borderline. I'm okay; I wasn’t there. It’s what I replied to inquiries about the Woolsey Fire evacuations. We’re okay; we all made it out. It’s what I replied to the questions about the status of the home that holds my childhood. It’s okay; our home is still standing.
I am alive and my people are alive and my home is still standing. But y’all, I’m not okay. We’re not okay. It’s not okay.
———————————————————
I’ve recently realized about myself that I avoid pain. I want to have absolutely nothing to do with it. So much so that I often even reframe things so they come across more positive. Today, I will not reframe. Today, I want to go against my nature and share my pain with you; I want to experience it fully. Because sometimes pain demands to be felt. Because it’s important.
I want to write. For myself, but maybe for you, too. We all have our stories and I can’t keep mine in my head. For once, I want to process this pain out loud. Because no, we are NOT okay. I AM continuing to pray that we will be though.
———————————————————
I couldn’t bring myself to mark “safe” online after what happened at Borderline. I can’t do it now with the fires either. Because, are we safe? I don’t know.
And.
I didn’t want to put myself into the mix of a tragedy that isn’t mine. Of a heartbreak that isn’t mine. Is it mine?—Because I wasn’t there. I didn’t lose my son or my best friend or my father. I didn’t almost go to our beloved Borderline that night. My childhood home is still standing and my pets are alive.— I hate to say this part: I didn’t want to mark myself safe because I didn’t want people to think that I was claiming a tragedy that wasn’t mine— that I was claiming it for attention. What. in. the. world. Why did that even cross my mind!? I hate that it did. I can’t feel this way and then turn around and say that I am not heartbroken. That I don’t deserve to be. This tragedy IS mine. This heartbreak is mine. It’s YOURS. It’s all of ours.
Please don’t let yourself convince you that it’s not. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. I am in pain. I know you are, too. And that pain... it demands to be felt.
I woke up in the very early hours of Thursday morning to a call from my boyfriend. Checking on me. Making sure I was okay. Giving me the news about Borderline.
My heart sank.
I wasn’t there. In fact, I haven’t been there in like a year. It was college night. Are my kids okay? What about the people I know who work there? Were any of my friends there? Dear God, I hope they’re alive. Is this a nightmare? This is my nightmare. What do I do? Please God!
...
That night, we were evacuated.
As I drove away from my house, I counted as 23 fire trucks headed toward what I was leaving behind. Hours later, from the front seat of my dad’s truck, I muttered, “no. no. no. no. no.” as tears seemed to waterfall from my eyes when, we thought (because it looked as though) my childhood home had gone up in flames.
Our house is okay, but that feeling. I’ll never forget it.
———————————————————
I’m working on writing about the pain I feel. About Borderline... about the fires. About the confusion and the heartbreak and the heaviness in my heart that just keeps repeating, “this is too much - this is too much - this is too much.” When I find the courage to finish putting my pain on paper, you don’t have to read my story. But I do want to hear yours. If you’re willing to share, and I hope you are, I will listen. In the words of Jonathan Safran Foer, I want to believe your pain and be PRESENT for it. Because sometimes that’s the best medicine. Even if there is no cure.
Jesus weeps with us. Let me weep with you.
Written November 11th, 2018
Addie B.