Yesterday afternoon Chris and I went to Megan Q. Bostic's exhibit in downtown Greenville.
I can't even tell you. . . .
I can't even tell you how I really wanted to grab some wine bottles and drown myself in a puddle of tears while walking through and looking at the pieces.
Anything to make the pain and sadness stop.
However, that just would not have been a good life decision.
And Megan did not need a crazy, crying, drunk person at her party.
I have my opinions about what most of the pieces reminded me of in regards to the family and emotions I've felt.
I have my opinions about what the pieces made me feel.
I have my opinions about what they did to my soul.
I found myself staring at them for a while and trying to remain composed in a room full of friends and strangers.
A little piece of me died in that room.
I found myself being unable to speak about what I thought they represented because I knew it would bring me too close to the point of devastation.
I don't know if I'll ever be able to speak of them without crying.
Right now I'm not allowing myself to talk about them out loud.
I just can't.
As we were leaving, Chris felt the need to talk about the pieces so he could recover. He had asked Megan about a few of them and wanted to share that with me to get it out.
He didn't need to tell me.
I already knew.
But I couldn't even speak more than a few sentences about what I felt some of the materials represented before needing to take a breath and changing the subject.
I don't know Megan well, but I recognized a lot in her work.
She totally delivered and I was not left wanting more because it was exactly how I was feeling.
I don't know if I could even handle more.
I am so pissed.
I am so sad.
I am so proud.
I am raw.
I am so. . . I don't know.