I don’t know how to begin this “little” tale of mine; it feels as if I’m making a joke out of the situation by calling it “little,” but that’s what everyone in my life refers to it as. That’s only because they weren’t present when it happened; I don’t expect second-handers to understand, anyway.

Everyday I wake up and hate myself. The mirrors that I used to stare in, dolling myself up with a joyous smile were covered. I try to keep up appearances to not make people concerned, but daily, someone has to point out an error. “Oh, dear your makeup is smudge,” or “your hair is sticking out.” I play it off as waking up late and rushing, but I believe that excuse is wearing thin.

I can’t even sleep in my bed like I used to. “A bear in hibernation” is what my friends used to refer to me as, but closing my eyes is an act I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

I sit in front of cameras daily as reporters get me to recount the story; it happened years ago, yet they still bring it up. Despite the career I have as an actor and activist, they never want to know what I’m currently doing until it’s close to ending. No matter how the words leave — no word straying from what happened, no exaggeration made to gain sympathy points as my eyes glaze over in a daze, mind trying to distance itself from the reoccurring memories while simultaneously digging them up like a madwoman — people always act interested and give the same words of encouragement and condolences. I know they don’t care anymore and that I’m being used as some paper woman for a cause. I know people want to hear different things, yet my throat closes whenever I try to suggest another topic, like I’m only made to repeat the damn story for the rest of my life.

Finishing up interviews gives me a breath of relief; I feel free, yet trapped altogether. I want a break, but I fear if I try to gain one, I’ll be viewed as someone who doesn’t care and is only using it for my own gain rather than to help prevent. I want to prevent, but I also want to drown in a bottle and hope I don’t come to; it’s hard to decide what’s more important.

At dinner, once the news comes back about the interview being a success, everyone is giddy, knowing that their moneymaker doesn’t need replacing. Even my friends who I confide in are heavy in laughter, nearly doubling over the table at whatever piss poor joke leaked from my mother’s mouth. Despite knowing the effect everything had, they always make jokes out of it, like it’s something deserving in a comedic hall. I believe it’s my fault it’s gotten this far, anyway; I never tried to stop or correct them when they over exaggerated — or under explain — some parts of the story. There wasn’t anything in me that cared, like I’ve become numb to the things I once preached to a choir about. It’s funny. I was vocal about a lot of things. Now, the moment someone mentions the event with more humor than dignity, it’s like a zipper is superglued zipped in my throat.

‘His death isn’t funny!’ is what I want to tell them, ‘he was the love of my life!’ I need to scream, ‘he loved you all!’ I wish to plead. None of the words leave, and I truly understand one thing: I’m pathetic…

That bottle does look rather appetizing now.