The Wall

I miss being known. That might be the loneliest part. Not loved in the abstract. Not admired. Not supported by a bunch of well-meaning people telling me I’m doing great. I mean known. The specific, unglamorous, deeply integrated kind of knowing that happens over years and years with one person. The look across the room. The “I knew you were going to say that.” The shared history under every conversation. The ability to be a complete pain in the ass and still be understood correctly. Now even when people are kind, I feel translated. Reduced. Like I’m giving them the public version because the full one takes too long and they don’t have the context anyway. She had the context. She knew the old me, the good me, the angry me, the ridiculous me, the version of me before grief hollowed everything out. Without that witness, I feel blurry. Like my edges aren’t fully there. It’s amazing how much identity lives in being recognized by the right person.