For a while, and longer than I am happy to admit, my sternum had this thing where it felt like it’d been sawed open, and the mess it made was too fucking huge. Whether I talked about it, or wrote about it, it didn’t really make a difference. I still ended up disgusted, looking away from my mess pooling on the floor. A therapist (shout out, Edu) tried to name the mess, but I hoped I could ignore it for as long as it remained nameless. Why does it even matter? Besides, if I don’t know its name, I can pretend it’s something else less muggy, less shameful. At the time, the mess was busting my seams open, and I didn’t really see it. So much of my script had been edited by the mess, sort of like the midnight barber meme.

It’s kind of funny to think about it now. I really thought everyone’s thought process was the same. I really thought it was perfectly logical that I could have saved my grandpa if only I had prayed more often, with more vigour. It was a completely normal assumption that most people avoided watching horror media, not because they were afraid of it, but because they related a bit too much to it. I also didn’t question that constant nudge telling me I should get away from the people I love to keep them safe from harm, be it a catastrophic event or the odd stomach ache.

The signs were all there, but stay with me here, why would I question something that has been wired into my brain ever since I sprouted on this earth as a conscious being?

I am not sure if I would’ve been able to keep pressing the seams shut unassisted, so thank the universe for Edu’s stubbornness (and for fluoxetine). The proverbial mess poured all down and out, and I had to actually look at it. And get down to it. Hands to pool, pool to floor. Shaped it up, shaped it out. Stood back.

Walking away from the mess, seeing it for what it was, was an experience. Realized I was leaving it be probably for the first time ever. Had it been possible all along? Watched out carefully, wasn’t entirely sure if it’d crawl all the way back and cling extra tight to my bones. But the mess stayed put. I guess it didn’t know where else to go; the nook in my chest was the only home it had known. All those times I tried so hard to grip the mess, and it just seeped through my fingers and splashed all over everything, and everyone.

From a couple of feet away, I finally noticed that the mess actually had rhythm and flow, and it spoke. It talked all in faint gibberish at first, I’ll give you that, still does at times. Maybe I wasn’t coherent either, so we’re learning to translate each other. I was scared, and realized the mess was, too. Ok, cool, something we can bond over! The mess wanted to be heard; it spread as wild as it did, not to inconvenience me and those I love, but to be acknowledged. We’re still not entirely sure how to deal with that.

Naming the mess didn’t make it go away, as I feared, but it didn’t actually need to crawl all the way back. We know each other’s names, and we can chat. Each day is a process of going closer, cupping my hands, sifting through it. I can take my time gathering it all up back into the nook. Pat the seams shut gently for a chance. The mess still makes its presence known, and sometimes it still feels as heavy. But the residue doesn’t feel as sticky. I am growing to feel towards my mess kind of like how Mia Goth’s character felt towards the creature in Frankenstein, probably.