Lemons and Coffee

I like my lemons to be sour and my coffee to be sweet.

Only once did I ever feel numb.

So, Life, throw me your lemons! I'll eat them raw and revel in your aghast expression, in your horror at what I've done!

I'll laugh as the liquid spills from my bleeding mouth and cry, "More!" until your queasiness turns you away, until the acid eats away, too, the ground at my feet and you can no longer touch me!

The trauma had lasted so long that when they finally took me in, I could feel nothing but fear and pain. It took weeks for the pain to fade, replaced by blissful nothing. The fear, though, never went far: fear of sickness, fear of pain, fear of opioid addiction. Nearly dying does that to a person.

Will you then change your tactic? Sweeten my coffee, charm me, surprise me, fill me up with money and success until I am fat and glutted and have forgotten my pile of lemons? The grass could grow over, weaving and winding together to build a bridge over the broken ground, leading you to me once more. Try either, my friend: you will not find me defeated.

I thought I was healing, and I was, physically. The wound fully closed a month after the surgery, three weeks after they had taken out the tube and told me the middle of the incision would never be stitched closed, but it would heal on its own. I stopped taking the opioids before they suggested I do so. The pain was far easier than what I had been through for months now anyway. I knew I didn't have the strength left to also fight an addiction.

Quietly, now, if Life has turned away for a moment, and I shall whisper to you the true key to my defeat, if Life should wish it so. The secret is this: if Life were to give me the seeds for a pear tree, and I should grow it, and if it were to give me pears, that would be my undoing.

It would not be throwing me lemons, or coaxing me into false comfort with sweets, that would do it. But handing me this ripe fruit? This soft, mild thing?

The full-time job I landed soon after was boring, but it was something after months of nothing. The man I started dating was nice enough. It was six months before I quit the job. Seven months before I quit the man. I had realized partway through that I never really liked either of them.

Something clicked in my head when I had a dream about the man I had dated two years prior, who had broken my heart. It was the most devastated I had ever been, the most in despair, and I realized I could not remember how that had felt. I could not remember what it felt like to love him.

It is too much for me to bear.

I realized I could barely feel love for my friends.

I cannot bite into its flesh with rebellion in my heart. I cannot muster the craving for so unsweet a fruit. No, I cannot bear to think of all the good, all the soft, all the mild things of this world.

The numbness was thick, and I was drowning in it.

And why should I?

I was only numb once, but it was for a long, long time.

Sharpness, acidity, fire, ecstasy: these are what hones you, strengthens you, fulfills you. These are what keep you living. These are what keep you awake.

Anger brought me back.

I should know—

Not happiness, not sadness, not love, but anger.

As I was asleep for a long while. Life had given me pears, and those pears made me feel nothing. Nothing at all.

It began eating away at the edges of the fog. “I have been wronged!” my soul screamed, “This nothing is killing me!” and it felt… well, it felt. I finally raged and cried at the events that had torn me down. My crooked, wicked smiles began to return.

So, Life, give me your lemons, sweeten my coffee, do what you must: but if you give me pears, expect that I will turn them into pies, or into vinegar. I will not go softly—I will not go back to sleep.