I haven’t known what to write about. Strike that. I haven’t known what I wanted to publish.
I have been patiently waiting. Waiting for the hurt to leave. Waiting for my life to return to ‘normal’. Waiting to get back into a place of my own. Luckily, my work took a turn towards the compelling a few months ago and so it has been easy for me spend long hours in the lab.
That doesn’t mean it is easy.
There are days when I am unbelievably sad. I am swimming in grief over the death of the relationship. Stunned to be in my situation. It’s like dying from hiccups. Sure, they are annoying and they overwhelm your life while you have them such that you can’t focus on anything else or fathom what life would be like without them. But to die from them? It seems absurd.
I am left the question:
Was love lost or was love not enough?
It’s a tough question to answer. Damned one way or another. So I try my best to ignore it.
And some days I can. I continue with my life just as I did. It’s striking how little of my life the boy was a part of. I go to work, I eat, I sleep, I am in touch with my family and friends. I don’t even have anything of his to send back. We live 1600 miles apart. We don’t have that many mutual friends or overlapping social circles. There is nothing holding the thought of us together. If it weren’t for the occasional photo, I would think that it was all a figment of my imagination. Perhaps that’s for the best. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind and all that.
It’s odd, mourning the loss of something that you aren’t sure even existed.
I am being melodramatic, I know.
The difference between me now, with nearly 31 years of life experience, and younger versions of me (at 20 and even at 27) is that I know that it’s not about me. Or even that much about us. I get it. You don’t make plans to live a life together and suddenly back out at the last minute if it’s about me. Sure, I’ve changed as I’ve grown into my life, but I am fundamentally the same person that I have always been and presented myself to be. I am proud of that person and happy to be her. Or maybe it’s all just a self-preservation mechanism.
I’ve struggled with the idea of whether or not I want to forgive. There is a clear distinction between deciding to forgive and the ability to forgive. I don’t doubt that I am completely capable of forgiveness, I just haven’t figured out if I want to. Then it dawned on me that I don’t have to make that decision. Because nobody is asking me for forgiveness. It’s not about me. So I am not taking it personally.
Life is moving on. And I am moving with it.
But it doesn’t make it less lonely.
P.S. I am hoping these posts dripping in melancholy will subside soon. I have two more weeks of couch-surfing (note: couch-surfing in your 30’s means sleeping on the futon in the spare bedroom and not actually having to sleep on the couch) and then I can move into my own place and really begin to settle back into my life (and perhaps back into my cooking…).