trustee - how ill never trust anyone ever again

There are days I still wonder if you ever understood how important you were to me.

I'm listening to a podcast about a famous Chinese singer who was very depressed, and how she had called her best friend and left a voice mail explaining that they were feeling terrible and needed someone to talk.

And I thought how I could never call someone when I'm feeling sad. How I could never tell anyone how useless and meaningless I sometimes feel, and how there's days my life and existence don't make any sense.

I couldn't tell anyone but you. I did call you and talked to you and cry in front of you a lot of times telling you about it. I now realize, this was a lot for you to take. I was putting my life in your hands and expecting you to solve my problems. To give me a sense of self. 

I was expecting you to relieve me from that burden. And you really couldn't.

I guess that's why you left. I know now, I can't make some else responsible for myself the way I used to do with you. I'm the only person responsible for me. So I can see how tiresome having someone like me around could be.

I can't blame you for leaving me. I know, that I'm often a little bit too much. I know now that calling you when I was feeling bad and showing all these fears and vulnerabilities was a mistake.

I thought I could trust you, but I wasn't supposed to do that.

And I know now that I will never trust anyone again with my sadness and my sorrow, the way I did with you.

I'll never trust anyone, ever again.

Any-verse-aria

 It's been almost a year now. I should be sleeping but I can't. 

The last few days I started thinking about the accident again. Today when I got to my room, I thought about what it would have looked like if I had passed away that day.

I sat down on the bed and left my bags on the floor. The bed has no bedsheets right now but it had them that day.

I could imagine my mom coming to the apartment and opening the door of my room sobbing. Looking at the bed not done and the stuffed lion I always sleep with, comfortably positioned in my pillow and covered with a blanket so it doesn't get cold. 

I imagine she would sit down, hug the lion and cry over my pillow.

I imagine my sister sobbing uncontrollably looking at the gift she gave me before I left for the trip. The Sakura mousepad unused.

I can imagine my dad, sitting on the couch back at home, completely dissociated and sedated, with the doggies asking for pets.

I can imagine my best friend apologizing over and over again to my parents, like if it was her fault.

What would they do with my stuff? What would they choose to keep? What would they give away and to who?

What picture would people use to talk about me on social media about how sad they are and what else would they say?

I wonder, what would my mom or sister choose to dress me with for my last outfit. Would they give a sweater in case I felt cold? Would they ask the funeral home to put a stuffie inside the casket in case I felt scared and wanted to hug something?

And what would my face look like? Would they be able to hide the bruises? What color would they tint my lips and cheeks so I wouldn't look so pale? Would they let my hair down, because they know that if I go to sleep with a pony tail or anything it gives me nightmares?

What color would the casket be? What type of wood? What flowers would they use to say good bye and do they know my allergies never allowed me to smell flowers?

Who would show up? Who would shake my parents hand and say "I'm so sorry for your loss" and come up with a sweet story about who I was. And would there be anyone regretting not being nice to me before I passed? What words would they never be able to say to me now?

Who would sit in the chairs around my slowly putrefactive body, doing small talk and catching up on gossip? What food would they serve? I always liked the chicken soup and the cheese sandwiches.

Who would carry the prayers and who would take care of bringing the priest for the mass? What songs would they sing and would they know if I could, I would have liked to sing them with them? 

And then, once we got to the cemetery... what would their last words be? How would they know that the sounds of the dirt on top of the box would make me remember how the bodies collapsed on top of me while I was unable to move or breath and had only the ability to scream as much as I could.

What would have happened to my soul after that? Would I go to hell? Have I been good enough to be close to God or would I need the thousands upon thousands of prayers from my mom to leave the purgatory?

Would God consider the time I imitated the kids from Fatima and tried to torture myself tying stuff to my body to help the souls of the ones in hell? Or would it hold me accountable for the countless times I said I dispissed my life and wanted to die?

And later, a year later. What would remain of me? Would they still whisper my name? Would they love me more? Would they try to trash talk me and who would say "we don't talk badly about the dead, they are not here to defend themselves"?

Would dying that day stop all the suffering and fear I always lived with?

My nose hurts. 

I should be sleeping but I can't. 

I keep thinking about my own death since then, and I wonder if I'll ever stop thinking about it the way I do. 

I wonder, when I'll be able to rest.