And I almost always wake up on the wrong side.
And he is in my dreams. Every. Fucking. Night.
Still.
Two days shy of three months.
I just want to move to Seattle and hurry up and start over.
Press restart.
And he is in my dreams. Every. Fucking. Night.
Still.
Two days shy of three months.
I just want to move to Seattle and hurry up and start over.
Press restart.
So I can make my new home somewhere where no one knows anything about me except for a few people. So I can leave the walls of a failed home.
I find things to fill the time. Distraction. Mending. Healing, I guess.
TV. Cooking. New friends. Old friends. Long-distance phone calls. "Checking in with people" so I don't have to say "good god this house is so still without his breath."
I just want to get to sleep before 2AM some fucking night.
Without having to down a bottle of red wine to myself.
Faulty reparations against my bones.
My body hurts because I quit working out and sit long hours at work without wanting to interact with people.
Days are getting better. I'm feeling "lighter." Not always so melancholy.
I once didn't think about him all day. But not at night.
At night the ghosts dance in the hallways and trip over the clutter on the ground.
I still leer at couples. I still cringe when people mention their partners, husbands, wives, etc. But the pictures of babies bother me less these days.
The happiness of others no longer feels like a red-hot syringe climbing up my veins.
Now it's just a tickle in the back of my eyes, a wince, a shrug.
I scour the internet for ideas for old-made-new items.
For the new life on the west coast that is waiting waiting waiting for me.
I simultaneously loathe and am saddened I don't own the uplifting Pinterest crafts that encourage me to "believe" and "love."
I find things to fill the time. Distraction. Mending. Healing, I guess.
TV. Cooking. New friends. Old friends. Long-distance phone calls. "Checking in with people" so I don't have to say "good god this house is so still without his breath."
I just want to get to sleep before 2AM some fucking night.
Without having to down a bottle of red wine to myself.
Faulty reparations against my bones.
My body hurts because I quit working out and sit long hours at work without wanting to interact with people.
Days are getting better. I'm feeling "lighter." Not always so melancholy.
I once didn't think about him all day. But not at night.
At night the ghosts dance in the hallways and trip over the clutter on the ground.
I still leer at couples. I still cringe when people mention their partners, husbands, wives, etc. But the pictures of babies bother me less these days.
The happiness of others no longer feels like a red-hot syringe climbing up my veins.
Now it's just a tickle in the back of my eyes, a wince, a shrug.
I scour the internet for ideas for old-made-new items.
For the new life on the west coast that is waiting waiting waiting for me.
I simultaneously loathe and am saddened I don't own the uplifting Pinterest crafts that encourage me to "believe" and "love."
When did these messages become lame? After college?
Between the career change and turning 30?
After my second "crushing" breakup?
After my twelfth friend or family member died?
Now I look at the crafts on Pinterest and assume that they're made by a housewife in Texas
who has 3 kids,
a 5-bedroom house in the country,
and oodles of time to make every meal from scratch
AND work out 2-hours a day.
She says "y'all" a lot.
Goes to church every week.
No jeans.
And goddamnit it makes me a little jealous.
Between the career change and turning 30?
After my second "crushing" breakup?
After my twelfth friend or family member died?
Now I look at the crafts on Pinterest and assume that they're made by a housewife in Texas
who has 3 kids,
a 5-bedroom house in the country,
and oodles of time to make every meal from scratch
AND work out 2-hours a day.
She says "y'all" a lot.
Goes to church every week.
No jeans.
And goddamnit it makes me a little jealous.
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