When you’re still looking for what’s Gone

Today, I can’t breathe. I woke up this morning in denial. I rolled over and stared at the wall for what turned out to be two hours. The whole day has felt crushing, empty and emotional.

I know that this is just monstrous PMS. Since my ex left my pre-menstrual week has resumed its aggressive pre-menstrual dysphoria. The last four or five cycles, however many there have been in his absence, have been horrific. So horrible I decided to start drinking Prozac water again to try and smooth the passage. I don’t think it’s worked.

Because the gaping wounds in me are exposed and filled with grief and loss again. I desperately need to connect to people, with someone. But no one is the “right” person. In short, no one is him. Even after four months, and now a month of silence. No one is him.

My mind is thoroughly occupied with begging him to contact me. To do something more than like my Facebook posts. I’m trying to ignore his watching eyes, I should delete him. But I still want him to come back, you see. Even as I counter every positive reminiscence with every time he rejected me, every time he was mean and every time he made me feel like less of a person. It just doesn’t make sense that he’s not staring back at me in the mornings anymore.

All these twisted feelings are welling up inside me, filling and spilling over my wounds. There’s nowhere else for them to go. Because no one wants to hear about it anymore, not even I do. So they bubble and repeat themselves, fighting each other for time as I try desperately to find space and lightness in my mind. It’s been four months, how long can I hurt so aggressively?

My dysphoric PMS has left me incredibly vulnerable. It’s exacerbated quieted borderline traits. I’m taking on the negativity of those around me. The poisonous familial atmosphere at home. The financial strain. The continuing impact of my ever wrong choices. I feel all of it. And deeply.

And the person who knew when to hold me close and when to just sit beside me. Who knew when I needed to go out and when to be distracted with TV. Who was my favourite person, my best friend. Who is still the one I want to turn to right now, is gone.

The comfort here is that PMS ends, and so to may my intensified grief.

 

 

 

In another bedroom

Sitting in a bedroom with another guy from Tinder and I’m starting to wonder what it is I’m looking for.

This guy’s pictures didn’t accurately capture all that he is so I know we’re not going to have sex the moment I lay eyes on him. He shows me around his place, I say hi to his roommate and we walk to the local IGA to buy something to drink. He’s friendly and warm, but I’ve stopped paying attention. I’m on my phone looking for anything else.

We walk back to his place and start drinking and he’s giving me that look and I’m messaging a friend for advice on leaving. I end up just openly telling him that I’m not feeling it and he’s perfectly okay with that. We keep drinking to Rick and Morty, we swap stories. He wants to hear the story of my break up so I tell him. He says ‘I’ve never heard a story of two people who need more space from each other than you two’. I tend to agree.

The guy I’ve been sleeping with starts messaging me and I allow the distraction. I like the sexting and the teasing. When we fuck, it’s good. It’s alarmingly delightful to watch the person you’re riding come apart beneath you. The confirmation that you’re fucking brilliant at this. It’s validating. He confirms I’m physically the 8/10 I think I am with, great sex skills to back it up. It’s intoxicating to experience, the desirability.

But back to the guy I’m sitting with as he tells me about his first girlfriend and how she cheated on him and how he was so swept up in her that he was allowing it. And I agree that love makes us do wild and stupid things. We both agree that this is typical behaviour from a Frankston local.

But I’m sitting in this bedroom with this guy who’s telling me about his life and his kooky religious mum who blessed his bedroom, where he’s travelled, the drugs he loves, and all the alcohol he drinks and he’s hot, but not in the way I like. So I’m wondering what it is I’m looking for, you see.

And it occurs to me that I’m looking for two things, my ex and nothing. Nothing at all. So I announce that I’m leaving and allow a quick hug.

Fuck I hate those awkward “goodbye” hug.

Heartbreak amongst other Things

Nearly all days are good days now.

Even when I’m driving through the rain to work to trudge in mud all day and chase horses in circles in painfully uncomfortable gumboots, it’s still pretty okay. I can go home and say ‘yes, today was good’.

Even when my alarm goes off and barks at me that it’s time for the gym and I needed approximately seventy-two hours more sleep, it’s still good. Especially when I’m tired and I’ve been sitting at my computer for hours not writing what was actually a very straightforward piece for university, the day was still good.

Even when I had to go buy bras due to stripping fat and found that I sit uncomfortably between an E cup and a DD, I still saved $42 on those bras so today was good. And even though my head felt like it was splitting in half today, it’s still been good.

But there’s an absence. An undertone of melancholy. It creeps around the edges and tries its very hardest to slip into gaps I didn’t know existed until it found them. That absence is you of course. The scab I can’t stop picking. The thought that never quite leaves my head. The first person to pop into my mind some mornings because sometimes I’m still expecting to wake up and see a text message from you. The presence that isn’t really a presence at all. But somehow manages to follow me all the same. Still the person I want to moan to about tax troubles and work stress and family drama. The person I still want to share news about my pay rise and tell about that annoying blonde haired girl and curl up next to at the end of the day.

Three months isn’t really that long against all the time that we had together. Sometimes it feels impossibly quick because it’s April now and I’m half way through my first semester of my second chance. And other times it feels impossibly slow, like this has been the longest three months of my lifetime.

Of course it hasn’t though. The days and weeks were long at first, but they’re not now. I am busy. Busy with healing, busy with learning, busy with working, busy with planning. I am busy with my life.

Things are good and it’s so puzzling sometimes that it can be that way. Because some days I’m not quite whole. And some days I’m far away from everything. And some days I’m still wondering ‘how?’. I’ll probably always wonder that a little bit.

But things are good.

They’re really good, even as these tears slide down my cheeks.