On My Happy Cloud

How Should I Feel if I Should Feel at All?

The crickets outside were louder than the box fan I kept on at night. I could only fall asleep if it's loud, white noise was going. I was laying in bed on my back and breathed in deeply. I had to do this often. It were as though my lungs were very small. I felt as though I was always panting. Whether that was because of the constant anxiety I always felt or the allergens that came along with summer, I don't know. Maybe it was both. Horrible.

Sometimes when I took a deep breath, it felt cleansing, satisfying. Other times it felt like my lungs shriveled up, completely denying me the deep breath I so desperately needed. And I would yawn. And yawn, and yawn. I would yawn until there were tears in my eyes. And then I would feel the hopeless feeling that usually brought on real tears...I would feel like I was about to cry. It was like looking down on a damn that was about to burst. You can tell it's about to fall apart but there is this instant when you know within the split second it's about to burst and it does. Not being able to catch my breath makes me feel like I'm going to completely break into crying hysterics and that's when I know it. I realize it; I'm about to have a fucking panic attack.

Luckily, at that moment of realization, I can mentally start attempting to turn things around, calm myself down. That is, if not all hope is lost. I can usually sense a panic attack is going to happen days before it actually happens. That's good. I can be prepared. I can maybe have a chance of preventing it. Which is good because I dislike having panic attacks...very much so. And that alone is enough to send me head first and full speed into one. To the outside world, I hide the symptoms. Hm. Partly because I am ashamed but mostly because if I hide them, then I can pretend they don't exist.

I crossed my hands over my stomach and pretended I was dead. Then I relaxed a little before realizing that I'd probably be more stiff. I laughed a little to myself.

I don't know why I do this. For a long time, I have occasionally done this. What would it be like to lie in a coffin with loved ones parading by?

I guess the best way I can describe it is that sometimes if people have an intense fear of something, they tend to make an obsession out of it.

I then wondered if I knew if a body in a casket was even stiff...?

I worked in a hospital and had to prepare dead bodies all the time. But at the point I did so the people had just died and didn't really even look any different. They were almost always still warm, just had a slight lack of natural color, were slack-jawed and not breathing.

I wondered if I had touched a body in a casket before and then I had a flash back of my papaw's funeral. I couldn't remember if I had touched him and if I didn't, I wished I had. I wished I held his hand for a moment and said goodbye out loud, but I couldn't. As the family lined up for final goodbyes before heading to the cemetery, I remember being very quiet. I couldn't speak. No one could. I think Papaw was the glue that held the family together. I think he took a lot of pride in that. I think he would have been disappointed if we all left separately from the funeral that day, like I feel we did. I couldn't speak. No one could. I couldn't believe we were going to put him in the cold, hard November ground. It didn't seem right. He would be cold, I thought. All alone and I would never again kiss him atop his soft, little head....

As my cousin, Trina, walked by his casket for the final time, she went beyond what I stupidly could not dare to do and leaned down and kissed him on the head once and for all. She came and stood with the family in tears, her face red. And then I cried. I really let loose. I sobbed loud and hard and held my hand to my mouth. I didn't care that everyone else could somewhat contain themselves. At this point, my mom wasn't even crying. In fact, this was the first time in days I hadn't seen her crying. She had to hug me and ask me if I was ok when she was the one burying her father. Strange...

Maybe people thought I was over re-acting a bit. That I was putting on a show. I didn't care. I was completely overwhelmed with saddness.

Maybe I am a bit dramatic, a bit defensive. I don't handle my emotions well, I don't handle stress. But I'm passionate, you can't deny that. Are all of those things something I should work to improve and sacrifice my passion? My drive?

I fear I would be a dull person if I did.

Maybe I do feel too much. But I'd rather feel too much then to just not feel at all.....

Much love and happiness,

Elaine Bradley