11/13/08

It’s been hard lately.  I’m not entirely sure why.

It’s almost like I live my life standing 20 or so feet away from myself, as if I truly am just a passer by to my own life.  Just a spectator, watching these things happen to me.  I feel so disconnected from myself, from others, from everything.  It’s like I’m not even here.

20 feet back, and it doesn’t hurt at all.

Everything that happens–everything–feels irrelevant.  The words that They speak, the lessons They teach, the disease, the poverty, the rape, the violence…it all just flows over me.  Like They’re not here, either.  Like none of us are here.

On October 29th, 2004, my piano teacher unexpectedly had a heart attack and died.  I was 17, and I had been taking lessons from him for about 6 years.  I found out when my aunt called, and told my mom.  My mom was very blunt about it, not even sure if it was true.  I had to check the newspaper online to see for myself.

No one seemed to think that I should care.  Beyond a cursory, "I’m sorry, dear", the general assumption was that it didn’t really bother me.  But it did.  A lot.  I never cried, really.  Not in front of Them, anyway.  They couldn’t understand, and I couldn’t explain, because I was too strong to be bothered by death.  It was expected that I would just get over it.

I didn’t even go to his funeral.  Every time I play now, I hate myself.  And I hateThem too.  For making me feel like it would be weak of me to honor the man who gave me something that I loved dearly.  But mostly I just hate myself for being so weak as to believe them.  How pathetic I am.

It’s been four years and I still think about him every day.  Whether I play or not. 

So it wasn’t always true, that none of it really mattered.  That people, places, things, just passed my by.  But it’s so much easier that way.  If none of it matters, things can come and go and I am so fucking placid, so placated, that I just watch them go.  Because that’s all I’m any fucking good at doing, anyway.  Just watching them go.