For a while, the only thing you’re sure about is the pain you feel, but it gets better, they tell you.

 You see it daily- people living out the motions of their daily lives as if nothing is wrong. Maybe they answer a question harsher, or narrow their eyes- the motions have an added edge. It’s rhythmic- the waking up, the convincing yourself not to think, the lull when you climb into bed and marvel at the space. It’s a lie to tell yourself it’s not empty, but you do it anyway- somehow, you exist on lies for a while.

We forget this feeling- like the pain of childbirth, or the fear of walking in the dark. I stopped eating and sleeping for a week- surely that meant something. It’s ironic, isn’t it? We leave each other to find truths, and lie to ourselves in the process- somehow, I find comfort in this.

I did it. I survived a week. It’s like quitting a drug, or coming down from a high- you’ll grasp at any part of it that remains, simply because the loss of it all is too encompassing for you to handle.. then slowly- you let go. It happens when you don’t realize it. You start noticing the world noticing you, and you start letting yourself into moments again- you acknowledge your own presence, and your own wants. You smile at people when you’re walking, instead of looking straight forward, afraid to break out in tears. It’s not healable now- I’ve come to terms with that. There’s nothing I can do to rush this, or stop the emotional tourture I put myself through. I give in. I give up. I move on.

I am meeting people- friends from weird places. Someone from 3 years ago, and someone else who sat behind me at the latest concert, who also happened to be in the same drama classes with me when we were 11, (12? I can’t remember.) I honestly, forgot for a while- the feeling of being listened to. It’s much different than a feeling of being wanted, or feeling like I only had something to give. Suddenly, people are giving without me having to ask.

 I swear to you, a week ago- I thought life had ended. I remember laying upstairs in bed, and not even being able to contemplate sleep. I remember running downstairs to talk, or writing, and writing. I remember the absolute powerlessness of not being able to make someone want me. (Which now- after all that happened- sounds absolutely ridiculous,) but then? It was an epic tragedy. I hung onto words- and comfort… it’s all been said- and everything I felt- luckily, I was able to get out in a constructive, and immediately gratifying way.

 And now.. what do I think? I think I did what I had to do. I think I have the best friends that have helped me beyond measure. One friend, (who I never imagined would step up like this,) did- and others spent countless nights and hours with me as I tried to find myself again. I think sometimes- when a part of us dies, we’d much rather bury our whole selves, than have to deal with the amputation of the dead being. For a while- it’s just loss- no words could ever truly explain each break-up. They are funerals in their own right.

So, darling- this is me without you. You’re missing out.

There’s one thing I want to say, so I’ll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I’m not sorry I met you
I’m not sorry it’s over
I’m not sorry there’s nothing to save