Normally, writing is my favorite form of self-medication. Putting everything out on paper (or its digital equivalent) is beyond therapeutic. Crafting the sentences, picking just the right words to perfectly convey how I feel…I love it. It soothes my soul in ways that can’t be replicated.
But not this week. This week, I don’t know how I feel, so therefore I can’t write it out. The words felt all wrong, when I felt up to trying, which wasn’t very often. I’d sit and stare at the computer screen, getting lost in the thoughts I’d been trying so desperately hard to push away.
I’d let myself be taken in. Caught in a world of “what ifs” and “could have beens.” It’s not a pretty place, that world. Deep down, you know that this is the right thing. The way things are supposed to go, because it wasn’t going to work out the way you had wanted it to. Too many parts of your life and his were wrong, the pieces of the proverbial puzzle literally wouldn’t fit together. So this is best.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though; that it doesn’t catch you when you least expect it. When you’re sitting in the middle of a crowded gymnasium, watching a high school volleyball game. Suddenly something happens and you literally laugh out loud. You want more than anything to reach out to him. Share that inside joke you know would make him laugh right along with you.
Instead, you just feel so ridiculously alone. You look around and see all these people, there and fully real, but they don’t matter. Nothing matters but the way you feel in that exact second when you want to say something, try and pull him back to you, but you know full well that it’s a terrible idea. So you fight to hold in the tears that are inexplicably in your eyes and wait for it to pass.
That’s the memory I kept coming back to when it came time to put the pen to the paper. Escaping that wasn’t possible, at least not in the moments of this past week. It was too raw, too fresh, too impossible to ignore.
No, writing was out of the question.
So instead I’m self-medicating by consuming plenty of dark chocolate, reading fantastic books, drinking a whole lot of other people’s whiskey, playing volleyball while heavily intoxicated, eating ice cream in bed, and sleeping in sweatpants that don’t technically belong to me.
These things…they are all wonderful. I love them. They have helped. Tremendously. They made me feel, if only for a few moments, like–just maybe–I was going to be ok.
My newfound ability to write this makes me want to believe it too. How easily the words were coming to mind, how I raced to my computer before I lost them forever. But of course, it won’t be that simple, getting over you. It will require patience with myself, and I will need to be reminded of that from time to time.
I’ll need to remind myself that this is not a life-threatening blow; it’s just still fresh enough to sting when I’m not careful.
But I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge you. Say thank you to you. For treating me exactly how I imagined I would be treated–better, even. For being just what I needed you to be. For helping me through tough times I didn’t even know existed until I emerged on the other side, grateful to be holding your hand.
Come what may, no matter how short our time together was, I will always be grateful to have been holding your hand.