A candid tale of 20-something humanness and extended note to self.

Sunday, 4 September 2016

The breaking


I threw up in the minutes after he left. And then I sat, clutching my hair in my hands on the bathroom floor, crying. Deep, primal sobs that shook my ribcage: the kind I'd never cried before. The kind that only ever come when you love with your entire being, only to discover that it is not enough. Sometimes, in spite of it all, we are just human. Vulnerable, and flawed, and hurt. We cannot always fix the broken parts. We cannot always put them back together.

We build homes in humans, I think. And so, when they leave: when the foundations aren't strong enough to weather the fourth storm of the year, we find ourselves homeless. Lost. Wondering who we were before we were theirs. Wondering if there will ever come a day when we don't feel them, somehow. When we don't fall asleep remembering how it felt to do so against the warmth of their skin.

The past few days, weeks, have been weird. Unpredictable. Difficult. There are moments, of course, when I feel it less, when I'm free of it: relieved, perhaps. Moments when I am so certain that I have done the right thing for us both and when I am laughing, full-bellied, like I always did, and can look forward to the future, despite it now being so different to what I once expected.

But then.
There are moments.
When the weight of the loss is crippling.
When his absence is palpable, and a single minute feels like an hour, and I cannot eat or sleep or stop the salt of my eyes from reaching my lips. When I cannot think of anything but the dance of his fingertips over mine. How he smiled into the kiss. That time we lay, legs entangled, after an evening of drinking cheap wine under Irish skies, and I paused for a moment to surrender myself to all that it was: to acknowledge that these were the days of my life and that they would probably never get better than this.

There are moments, so many of them, when I see his ghost everywhere: that kind, silly, devilishly handsome man who I loved so, so much, and I just fucking miss him. And I miss him. And I miss him. And it hurts and hurts and hurts.

It will take time to rid my stomach of this knot, I know that. It will take time to accept, and to heal, and to move on. To create a stranger out of familiarity, and to know that I am okay. That I can exist outside of him. That I am strong, and brave, and independent, and that there is life, good life, a better life, perhaps, beyond the breaking.

In the meantime, there is little else to do but to sit with this pain, and to let it consume me when it so wishes. To allow the confusion, and the clarity, and the grief, and the relief, and the hopelessness, and the hopefulness, and the doubt, and the discomfort, and the anxiety. To allow it all. Because to feel all of these things now means that I tried for something. That I so tried.

I loved: openlywildly, fiercely, and I gave myself, fully, to another, and for that, there were so many days, days of my life, that were full and rich and precious: when our smiles reached our eyes, and we knew, then, that we might be together, always.

But sometimes, in spite of it all, we are just human. Vulnerable, and flawed, and hurt. We cannot always fix the broken parts. We cannot always put them back together.   
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