#37 | routines
There's something about my body that intensely reacts to every flu shot and covid booster. I'm always knocked out for the night with a fever and aches. She would barely get side effects, though. One day last year, I remember falling asleep on the couch, sore all over, and waking up to the smells and sounds of a meal in progress. I was confused; she didn't like to cook. Her family rarely made meals at home and she thought of it as a chore, so I was surprised and touched that while I was incapacitated she took it upon herself to make something from scratch instead of ordering takeout. I hadn't even heard her leave to buy groceries. She was using a new york times cooking recipe for chicken thighs in coconut cashew rice. She kept saying it wasn't as good as the food I make, but I couldn't stop eating it. Between bites I continued to reassure her. What do you mean? It's exactly what I needed.
I finally cooked food at my new apartment, the first time I can recall cooking in probably a month, maybe even longer. I spent much of November at home getting fed by my mom, and then in December I was too busy apartment hunting, packing, being depressed, and traveling. But I love to cook, both for myself and for others, so it represented a milestone of healing for me.
Cooking has been an integral part of how I'm getting back on the treadmill of life. On Sunday, I went grocery shopping at a place down the block and bought some essentials. Monday, I went to Costco with my roommate, munching on hot dogs and filling up my granny cart with salmon, oranges, tofu, pasta, eggs, tomatoes, and various snacks. When I do a ton of grocery shopping, I always use a little notebook to make a meal plan for the ingredients I have. Tuesday, I broiled miso salmon with scallion butter rice and packed office lunch. I watched Materialists alone on the couch. It was so-so, lol.
Wednesday, I finished the salmon and prepped a creamy tomato tofu lentil soup. I probably made too much of it, but whatever. I watched YouTube for the first time in a few weeks and actually felt excited to watch things. Called a friend after.
Some other wins: picked up a collapsible laundry drying rack, a nice garbage can, a composting bin, and some kitchen organizers. I made side salads at every meal, commuted to the office four days in a row, slept at least 7.5 hours every night, finished a couple books, and ate breakfast every day, embracing a rhythm I didn't even have before all of this. So much accomplishment! I haven't run in a little while, but I'm hoping to go this weekend.
I finished the book I was reading about anxious attachment. Like I've written recently, it's been quite healing during recent weeks to help me become more aware of how I'm insecure and carry shame in my life, and how that alters my relationships. But the deeper I got into the book, the more I understood that although I have some anxious tendencies, I also have a lot of secure ones. I was good at giving her space, time, and respect when she needed it, without demanding immediate closeness or invading her; it was only when I began to feel neglected that I needed more information. I was not a demanding or burdening person.
But the more I can forgive myself, the more unbelievable everything feels. I was actually a pretty good partner, so how could this be? I found myself sobbing so hard in therapy yesterday about this. It makes even less sense than before, I choked out. I could barely put things into words, trying to hold myself back. My therapist just told me to let it out. I always feel stupid for sobbing in therapy because it seems like a waste of money, hahahah. I can cry alone or in front of friends, why am I paying someone to watch me do it? But it felt fucking good. Is it somewhat easier to see now, that this is just how grief makes people behave? she said. Unpredictably and irrationally, people sell all their belongings, move across the country, all sorts of things. I nodded in response.
Over the past couple months, I've made a lot of great progress—more so than I could have imagined. But part of it is because this is all I can think about. Understanding the breakup has been the focus of my therapy sessions, my journal, my reading selections, and my conversations with friends, not to mention most of my waking thoughts. Focusing on it 100% of the time has meant that I understand my own feelings better, and I keep wanting to take that understanding, share it with her, and listen to her as well, so we can both feel more at peace. But that's the problem: that exchange requires two cooperating people. She's not there, she can't hear or share anything about this that would be productive, and I can't expect her to be for a long time. She has probably been intensely focused on her dad instead. When she thinks of me, I must just be an abyss of unresolved feelings that she needs to push away, and that's okay. I feel better about things, and that's what matters for me right now.
It's been difficult to be at peace with the opacity, the abruptness, the abyss, and yet I'm getting there one day at a time, surprising my friends and family and myself. I often repeat in my head that there is so much unknown, and yet one day, we'll uncover it all.
Reminds me of a poem by Tracy K. Smith:
I’m forever a child looking out my window at the night sky
Thinking one day I’ll touch the world with bare hands
Even if it burns.