20 Days

I went to the cemetery. It’s Rosh Chodesh Nissan. We’re not supposed to go during Nissan. We don’t get to go on the final day of shloshim. 

My mother is buried under that patch of ground. She is in a box. I don’t even know which way she is facing. Is her head up or down. Where are her feet. Her head. Has she started decomposing. 

It’s weird to stand there. I want to feel sad. I don’t understand how we’ve gotten here. Why has life brought us here. I don’t understand. The ground is sunken in over her box. The ground has settled. The marker at the foot of her grave has an incorrect date. In English and in Hebrew. How can they get such an important date wrong. 

My father cries when he reads tehillim out loud. Only then can I start feeling sad. Do the tears come. It hurts that she’s gone. I feel guilt that I have wished her dead for so many years. 

I miss visiting her. Holding her hand. Watching tv. Listening to music together. I miss her faces. I miss taking her outside and tanning in the park. I miss seeing her face so excited when I walk in the room. Throwing her hands up in excitement. I miss her knowing my name. 

I feel this constant guilt. And I wonder why I am not feeling sad. Why it’s so hard to cry. Why I mostly feel nothing. Empty. Walking around in a haze. 

I miss listening to music. The quiet is so hard. I need music to help me feel. It’s been twenty days without my mother. And everything feels so different. It feels so much harder to connect to my family. 

Feels so much harder to connect in general. Why am I so hard on myself. Why is there no clear way to deal with all of this. 

Twenty whole days without my mother. And I feel like I wasted all that time she was alive. I could have made the most of it. Instead I complained. I was bitter. I should have gotten to know her. Outside of the illnesses. I shouldn't have blamed her. I should have understood. 

And now it's too late. She's gone. She's in that grave. In that sunken in ground. With a marker that has the wrong date. And I am here in the silence. Trying to feel. 

My Country

It's moments like these that make me rethink life. I'm not such a spiritual person. But it is starting to feel like the end of days. Like the end is near. If there is another plan. It feels like it's about to happen. I sit here and think how I am in the wrong place. I shouldn't be here. I should be there. Standing tall with my people. Israelis.

Is it bad that it's not my Jewish pride, rather my Israeli pride that is itching to get out. That is desperate to go. To defend a country I love. A country that is my real home. To wave the flag and wear the colors. Blue and white. And show the world that we can not be defeated. We will not be defeated.

I wish to get on a plane and fly halfway across the world to be in the right place. The place where I belong. To be steeped in the culture. Soaked with the quality and influence of the land. Surrounded by endless beauty. Enveloped in the warmth and palm trees. I yearn to hear the language spoken on every street-corner. Hebrew. To touch the ground. The stone of the old city. I wish to argue with the tomato vendor in the shuk. Machane Yehuda. To smell the aromas of freshly baked rugelach and lachmagine.

The longing overwhelms me. And the anger. The anger towards the rest of the world. The media. Politicians. The average Joe. Who turn a blind eye. Refuse to see the truth. That a country smaller than Rhode Island is under constant attack. Civilian stabbings. Bomb scares. The feeling of chaos. Feeling unsafe. The fear of the unknown. The stench of death in every city. The blood pouring through the drains.

I look around and see indifference. And I wonder. Am I just like these people. Watching my country go down in flames. And not doing anything to stop it. A bystander. What am I doing to make a difference.

Open Me Up

Why is it so hard for me to open up. Why has it always been so easy to open up to total strangers. To people who could not be there for me. Who maybe did not even care. Who had other lives. That did not include me. I was a secret. A dirty little secret. To too many. I was not first. I was used. But it was so easy. Simple. I could say whatever I wanted. Be whoever I wanted. Whoever they wanted me to be. Was that the real me. Was it all a game. Fake. A facade. I could tell them whatever truth I wanted. Even if it was an ugly one. I didn't feel judged.

But now. When it actually matters. When it's real life. My life. I am silent. I cannot open my mouth. I cannot share a thing. Everything is on the surface. I can't break through. I do not know how to open up. There is potential right in front of me. And I will lose the opportunity. All because my lips are sealed. My walls have flown up. And I do not know how to break them down. I'm scared to introduce the real me. The complicated, imperfect version of me. Most people can not handle truth. It's all too much. I'm too much.

So now what. How do I get past this fear. This constant fear of unknown. It's not others' I should be concerned about. It seems it's my own judgement I am fearing. It seems it's me who doesn't feel worthwhile. Worthy. Why am I constantly my own worst enemy. Harshest critic. Why can't I see that I am a good person. That I am not so bad. That the past does not define me. It builds me. How can I open up if I do not see my own good qualities. Who am I really punishing.