Weary
If anyone asked how I’m doing (and few do), I would have to say I’m okay.
I’m getting by.
I’m managing.
I’m tired.
I’m really tired.
I’m so damn tired of managing. Managing is a survival skill; it’s not really what I was going for, you know? Until July, I was living, and living it up. I was content with frequent outbursts of unmitigated joy. Life was good. It was really good, and I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
I don’t feel that way anymore, and I wonder if, and when, I might ever feel that way again, despite everything. And I think, is it impossible? Is it possible to lose so big and still feel like the luckiest girl in the world? Is it possible to find that feeling again, in spite of the loss? I won’t know. I can only live long enough to find out, and there is no guarantee that the answer will be good. But I’m weary from missing him, and until I die, I will be missing him, because he will be gone that whole time. I really don’t see a reprieve possible. Maybe time and healing will give me the perspective I so sorely lack right now. It’s been just less than 6 months. That’s a blink of an eye; and yet I cannot fathom how 6 months have passed already. How is it possible?
I lost not only my sweetheart, but I also lost who I was with him, because of him, in response to him. He took a big chunk of me with him when he left, because no one else in the world can play his part, and so my lines are stifled. I miss his companionship so very much. He was such a wonderful friend and playmate, a conversationalist and confidant. Sometimes I get so caught up in my sad remembrances, I jones for a fix of the real man, so I go back and read our conversations, and he makes me laugh and smile and think and marvel at what a fabulous person he really was, so much more sharp and vibrant in reality than my mourning memories seem to allow. It’s a tonic to read; I fall in love with him all over again, every single time. And yet eventually I have to stop for the time being, and I am only too aware again of what I’ve lost. I’ve lost his inimitable company, and I miss him so much. I miss talking to him most of all, because that’s what we did most of all, and it was always a delight. And even on those off nights when it wasn’t quite as delightful, it was still better than most any other conversation.
It is not that I am unable to find delight and appreciate life now; I’m able enough. I find so many things so very poignant, because I finally have some kind of understanding of what a precarious miracle every little thing is, and how quickly it can vanish. But riding tandem with that is this undercurrent of sadness, this avalanche of emotions waiting for the slightest whisper to set them off and bury me, however temporarily. I cannot un-know what I know. I cannot pretend I don’t feel what I feel; I can’t fool me. And I don’t know what to do with my duality any better than anyone else does. I tell jokes when I’m crying inside. I cry when a funny memory crosses my mind. I want him so much, want him here where I can talk to him and hold him, knowing full well it’s entirely impossible. What do you do with that? Does anyone know?
God, I’m tired.