I have a problem with going to funerals.

But, with the way that I dress, the way that I act, you would think that I would be fine hanging out with a dead family member, right?

Yeah, no.

I hate funerals.

And, it’s not because I’m an insensitive *******.

You’ve all witness my breakdowns.

I eat the food afterwards.

Listen to people pray to a god that I don’t believe in.

Listen to people talk about a heaven that I don’t believe in, and wouldn’t get into, anyway, even if I did.

I drink the watery coffee.

I listen to my family talk about how proud they were with themselves because they didn’t cry, and feel weak and broken, ****** up, flawed, for sobbing so hard that my shoulders shook.

I look at the person in the coffin.

But I don’t see them.

I have a problem with funerals in general.

I tend to stand there, useless.

Though I have been known to give hugs to people when they are about to cry.

My problem, though, is not that I am afraid of death.

I am afraid of living, and being alone, more than anything.

My problem is that I have the strongest urge to run up to the coffin, and shake the person laying there, yell at them to wake up.

To just wake up.

To please just wake up.

Because they promised that they wouldn’t leave me.

But, everybody leaves.

Everybody leaves.