Still, I am here
You sit a few feet away, but looking in your direction I feel as though I’m standing on the shore squinting at a ship reduced to a tiny dot far from the coast. I do not belong. I am tolerated, not welcome. What was once familiar is utterly foreign and repulsive. The smell, the sounds, the suffocating atmosphere, all the same, as if frozen in time. I want so badly to tell you to run, to get as far away from this place as possible, but I can’t. You wouldn’t care anyway. You have been conditioned to believe that any utterance I make is to be regarded as deceit or discounted as the ravings of a fool.
Still, I am here.
The chasm between us is palpable. The uncertainty in your eyes when they meet mine deflates my sense of self. What could have been has been poisoned and ground down to the meager pulp of a distant acquaintance. I am an outsider, I am a punching bag, I am dirt that can be trampled and spit on for sport. Is this all it will ever be? Is there a chance for a turnabout? I keep this frail hope alive, buried deep, fortified from the onslaught of present evidence indicating that what I want most will never come to fruition.
Still, I am here.
This isn’t about me. Self-pity does me no good, it is vacuous, hollow. It changes nothing. Yet I find the call to wallow in my tears irresistible at times. It is a strange feeling, grieving for the ongoing loss of a relationship. You are feet away from me but I am powerless to stem the ebbing of the tide carrying you effortlessly ever farther out to sea.
Still, I am here.
“Just keep showing up, that’s what matters”, they say.
Okay, but does it? Matter? Will you even care that I kept showing up or will you simply shake your head in disgust at my feeble attempts to remain connected to you? A slow death is the worst death. Papercut after papercut, I pretend none of them affect me, but I am beginning to feel the desolate emptiness left behind by the languid dripping of the blood.
Still, I am here.
Back to the present moment. You dressed in white, looking anywhere but in my direction. Surrounded by others telling you what a great “decision” you’re making, how proud they are of you, how pleased god is with you. There is no “choice” in the matter. You chose to do this the same way you “choose” to be fed and clothed. A choice in name only. The moment is drawing near now, your aunt is wrapping up her saccharine speech about how great your “choice” is.
Still, I am here.
The time has come. You and your grandfather exit the room, followed by the rest of us. We onlookers gather down the hall, at the site of the ritual. A few silent minutes later, you and your grandfather emerge and step into view. Your grandfather begins uttering the "necessary" words. As soon as the final syllable has exited his lips, he takes you in the prescribed position, and, in one fluid motion, performs the ritual. You both disappear from our view, after which we, the audience, return to the pallid lighting of the gathering hall where your aunt gave her speech. I am suffocating.
Still, I am here.
A few more silent minutes tick by. You and your grandfather return and sit down in the middle of the hall, as I look on from the far side. You receive warm hugs from those around you as they whisper their approval and reassurance. Then, after an exchange with your grandmother, you walk over to me and thank me for “allowing” you to take part in this ceremony. You say these words like a dutiful servant relaying a message composed by the lord of the house.
Still, I am here.
“Of course”, I say, and offer my fist for a bump, which you reluctantly reciprocate after some hesitation. Of course, of course! What am I supposed to say? What else can I say? Like a massive body of water searching for the tiniest leak in a dam, the words search for a way to force their way out of my mouth. But my dam, being well-made from repeated reinforcement over the years, holds, hence: “Of course.” All this happens in a matter of seconds, and you promptly head back to the others, away from me. I stare straight ahead, hoping my face doesn’t betray the cocktail of anger and dejection present just under the surface.
Still, I am here.
There’s a man sitting up at the front and slightly elevated, facing us. He gets up and gives a speech of his own: god is pleased, you are doing something great, this is the first step on the correct path, etc. I am sick to my stomach. I want to throw up. I can't, though, obviously, wretch in the meeting hall. It’s not about me. Finally the man wraps up his little lecture. Your grandfather places a chair up front in preparation for the second part of the ritual.
Still, I am here.