#46 | wading
Last week, I changed my url since she knew the old one. I had been putting it off because in a strange way, I wanted to leave a line of safety for her to reach my thoughts. I never hid anything from her before. But, like her, I have a lot of unprocessed feelings now that I don’t want her to see, all of the anger and pain directly inflicted by her and the death of her dad.
I’ve been thinking so much about death. In my ideal world, I would be able to choose when I die. I want to live long enough to do everything I want! Just a few weeks before we broke up, I remember we talked about life aspirations. I said I hoped to write a book or a screenplay that gets produced. She told me she wanted to make a piece of art that goes into a museum. You should think bigger, I said. You could do an entire exhibit.
I loved her mind so much. She was the person with whom I wanted to experience and discuss everything. We never ever ran out of things to say, we never needed time apart. Alone, talking was our main activity, discussing the world, art, people around us. In group settings, she would squeeze my leg when something awkward happened, and I would look forward to our gossip on the train home. Our visions of the world overlapped in such interesting and beautiful ways. Everything is so quiet now. I don’t want to say goodbye to that, not forever. There’s an undercurrent of denial and desire beneath my feet at any given moment that I can’t see drying up any time soon, even as I try my best to forge a new life.
I told my therapist I feel like I’ve been cut in half and teleported to an unfamiliar planet, with no information about why or if I’ll be going back home at all. The disorientation is intense and persistent. I’ve been wandering strange paths and streets wondering if I’m supposed to settle down or indefinitely linger. My bedroom walls are blank, liminal. I’ve realized that even if I’m eventually summoned back, my return won’t be as sudden as my departure. It will never be a waste to build a new home, to make my stay pleasant. Maybe, when given the option, I’ll even choose to stay forever.
I’ve thought a lot about how I’ll feel if I see her again. When I buy groceries in our old neighborhood on the way back from work, I imagine seeing her around every corner. Sometimes I have too much to say, but lately in most hypotheticals I'm completely blank and turn away. There’s so much inside of me left unanswered and abandoned, grasping. She doesn't want to see or speak me until she has more to give. She has such a high standard for herself and what she can give to others. It's selfless yet self-immolating of her, knowing she's probably as suicidal as I am right now yet has chosen to go through it alone. But it's all her choice; the only decision I can make is to heal.