Last night, my senior told me that her first loss was her grandfather. She was 20 then, just graduated from nursing school. She lost him to cancer, she wasn’t able to talk about it for years without crying.
I almost told her that I lost my father, my first death, and that I lost him to diabetes, a fairly manageable disease and not as fatal as cancer. I almost told her that I almost want to die everyday of my four years of nursing school because I lost him when I was a freshman. That I got angry with both myself and my father; me for not knowing what I can do to help him, and him because he didn’t have the discipline nor the will to live for us. I almost told her that I have to suppress my feelings and my grief because I don’t have the time to mope around and avoid hospitals or sick people, because that is where I work.
Almost. Almost. I almost opened myself up to her but I didn’t.
And it is not because she would be unwilling to hear me out. It’s just that I am tired of people pitying me. I am tired of opening wounds that I have been trying to patch up again and again. I am tired of blaming myself for what happened. I am tired.