What does that even mean? Take all the time you need. Take all the time I need? Take all the time? Take time that I need? Why do people say that is if Time is something they can give me. You’re benevolently allowing me time to take time. The time I need. Who the fuck are you to tell me or to give me time to take time I need? Who the fuck are you and what the fuck does that even mean? Can I take time from BEFORE? From the past?? Can I take all of that time?? Give me that time back since you’re the Time-Giver. Since you’re allowing me to take time, then give me the time from before. Shut your I’m-sorry-for-your-loss-take-all-the-time-you-need ugly bitch-ass face up before I try my best to strangle you to death.
What stage of grief is this? The stage where I just want to smash people faces in. Where I spontaneously cry in public. Where I don’t want to sleep and don’t want to wake up either. Take all the time you need. Okay.
I need time to destroy everything. I need time to sleep. All I want to do is sleep. All I can do some days is sleep. I bargain. I compartmentalize. I’ll sleep. Work a little. Make a presentation. Answer stupid questions yet again. Go back to sleep. Wake up and work a little. Go back to sleep. Send an email at 2am on a Saturday morning. Take all the time you need. Fuck you. How ‘bout you take all the time you need to understand wtf I’ve been trying to explain to you for so long? How about you do that?! TAKE ALL THE FUCKING TIME TO LEARN HOW TO READ THIS REPORT I’VE HAD TO DUMB DOWN SO MUCH BECAUSE YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND SHIT!
I hear you on the other side of my door. Listening. Tip-toeing past my door to work because you can’t take all the time you need. Watching me. Waiting. You need to get up, you say. I can’t lose you too. You need to get out today. You need to go to the gym. I made breakfast you said. Fuck them eggs and fuck them potatoes and fuck this plate of food and let me sleep. I’m here aren’t I? I’m up. I’m out of my room and on this couch. I’m sitting here. Here, I’ve eaten and I’m going back to bed. I’m sorry. Just let me sleep and try tomorrow. I’m sorry. I’ll go tomorrow and check the mail and get groceries. I’m sorry.
Fuck this grocery store. I want to open my mouth and exhale a blast of fire and blow this shit down like a fucking dragon. Fuck these tortilla chips by the door. I wish I could stomp on every bag sitting here. Why is this here anyway? These mutherfucking cokes and sprites. All this sugar. They want you fucked up on this shit so they can sell you medical care and prescriptions after eating and drinking this shit. Fucking capitalism. Fuck you looking at? Go around me. I wish I could taser you in your fucking throat and stab you in your stupid drug-addict looking face. I want to take the time to tear this fucking store apart. Go through every aisle and rip all this shit up. Fuck these motherfucking GMO vegetables. Fuck this shit! Fuck this farm raised pseudo swimming pool grown fish. Fuck this fake as mass produced macaroni that tastes like shit! Fuck this over-priced fake food shit! Fuck this dead ass meat. Fuck this no lemon lemonade. This fucking fake ass fruitless juice. MAGA American cheese. Five lines to describe this fake ass yellow so-called cheese. Fuck you cashier and I ain’t helping you bag this shit. Fuck this cart. Wish I could use it to smash this fucking car parked next to me. Why the fuck are you staring at me? You never seem someone cry before? Bitch.
Take all the time you need. Your mission if you choose to accept is to get through a day as if you’re normal. Put your feelings in a box, smother it and hide it. This goes into a box and that goes into another box. My brain is filled with tiny little boxes of history and emotions. Boxes of memories of being very young. Boxes of being 4, 5, and 6 years old. Boxes from grade school, middle school. Boxes from being a pre-teen, a teenager, and an adult. Of being a daughter and a mother. A brain closet filled with boxes. Turn on your phone. Respond to emails. Read and respond to text messages. Present at meetings. Answer questions calmly. Smile. Say please and thank you to three people. Laugh at two jokes that you recognize as jokes. Run errands. Get my hair combed now after more than six months. Stay awake all day. Go to sleep before 2 am.
Take all the time you need to get your shit together and pretend like everything is okay. No problem. I can out-act Viola Davis. But it’s backwards. I’m not taking time. Time is taking me. It’s eating me up inside.