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Dead to Alive

By Kati Frazier

Is it really that hard?

I told someone I was in love today, they thought it was a joke. Am I that kind of person, the kind that seems emotionally dead? Not the kind of person who falls in love, as he said it.

There has been many a time in life that I wished I was emotionally dead, it would make things easier. I have been afraid of love my whole life, and now that I have it people have the gall to tell me that it isnt so.

I know this is really love, I know I am capable of it. Just because I didnt let you see that side of me doesn't mean it isn't there. . . . for a time it wasn't

For the longest time I didn't let myself feel. I decided it was not worth it. It seemed like a year that I went that way. How I survived I shall never know. Then, eventually I regretted it. I wanted desperately to rememebr what joy was like, even if it meant that I felt the pain as well.

I would yell and scream, tell people I loved them, that I hated them, so that I could force some emotion out of me. I would read and write things try to pretend I felt, in hopes that one day I would go along with the pretend, trick myself into having an emotion.

I dont know when I succeeded, but I remember that the first thing I felt again was despair. It was laughable to me. It was the same emotion the I had left off with, and it hurt just as badly.

I had a year or more's worth of degradations to go through all over again, to catch up.

Then after that, came the suicidal years.

It was all I could do not to shut down again. It is not as though one horrible thing was happening, but ALL the horrible things were happening, and they wouldnt stop. They refused. My emotions would no longer yield to my bidding, not that they had in the first place. I would pretend again, but the real emotions were still there.

In the most recent of what I call my suicide years, I began burning, and in the past months I began digging my skin. And somehow, through all of that, I have found a good emotion.

I have love, this tiny ruby in a sea of blood, and you have the gall to tell me it is nothing, that I am incapable of finding the treasure, that I do not know that it is real.

I laugh at you, because obviously you do not know what it is really like to love someone so much. I feel sorry for you, but not so much, because you choose to deny what I have rather than admit your lack of it.

I am not emotionally dead, and I pray it never comes to that again.

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