Love, loss, and expectation
by Cindy Myska, who knows how to be happy but doesn’t care about it right now.
I don’t care.
I don’t care if you like me, I don’t care if you want me to do something.
I just lost both of my parents and I don’t care about anything.
I keep saying that over and over. I don’t care. I say it as if it means something or makes things better.
It is not that I was not expecting my parents to die, they were both 83 years old. I did not expect them to die so close together. They were born 6 weeks apart and died seven weeks apart.
It is not as if I think anyone cares if I don’t care. It is just me, and I need to scream “I don’t care!” out loud so everyone knows. So everyone knows not to count on me. I don’t care if you want me to get my thank you notes written, I don’t care if you need my help. I don’t care if you want me to be okay, or if you want me to be not okay.
I don’t care if you try to love me, though I really want you to comfort me and I want you to care. I don’t care if you don’t try to love me and comfort me because … well, I don’t care.
If I did care, I would have to tell you that I feel the endless beauty of life and the sorrow of having believed in loss. If I did care, I would have to tell you that you really do not need me for anything and that might frighten me.
If I did care I might have to tell you how my parents’ deaths brought about gratitude for who they were rather than sorrow for who I lost. Like I didn’t feel how I should. If I did care I would have to love you for being yourself even though sometimes I don’t even like yourself. Like you didn’t feel how you should.
The worst part is, if I did care I would think I needed to be everything you want me to be instead of all that I want to be. Thinking I needed to be what you want me to be died when my Dad died. If there is no chance to please him anymore, there is no reason to please you … or anyone else in my life. So I don’t care.
It gives me freedom to not care. I don’t know why, exactly, and … I don’t care.