Last week, I thought I had hit bottom. I was wrong.
This week brought another blow. And somewhere in the middle of all this, a thought crossed my mind — the kind of dark little joke you make only to yourself: apparently, my work never got the memo about not hitting a man when he’s down.
But what about when he’s still falling? Does the rule apply then? I’m sure they didn’t waste a single thought on it. I am just one more piece of falling wreckage to smack around—vulnerable in all the worst ways. Taking a swing at the wounded is the oldest kind of cruelty, after all. And with the evidence piling up, it’s hard not to see it for what it is: harm delivered simply because the opportunity is there. That’s opportunistic cruelty — almost casual. Almost ‘friendly,’ as they like to call it. Or maybe I’m nothing so deliberate at all—just some tiny insect crushed underfoot, gone before anyone even realizes they stepped on it.
Anyway, I wish I had a post for you. I wish I had the clarity, or the distance, or even the stubbornness that usually pushes me through. But the truth is simpler, and heavier: I don’t have the strength. Not anymore yet.
So this is all I can offer for now — a brief signal from somewhere between the blows and the landing. There’s a strange helplessness in that moment: you can’t get up, because you haven’t even touched the ground. I’ll write again when my feet find it, wherever that ground turns out to be.