Tag Archives: grief

Ramblings

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I know my postings have been light lately.  It’s not for want of material, but rather a career and current projects that have overwhelmed me.

Where should I start?  I can tell you about my birthday, which, by some grace of some higher power, was actually quiet fun even if it was in a room full of strangers.  I ate, I drank, I laughed, I flirted – and went home one year older and alone.  I can tell you about the emotional hangover that came the day after – so much so that I “un-hid” his profile again (back to day 1 on “searching”).  I could tell you about my first date since the breakup – he was just getting out of a marriage of 22 years (just like my ex), with two kids (just like my ex), and lives in F (just like my ex).  I’m not walking into the bear trap twice (or at least not this soon).  I told him the truth about what happened and why I can’t see him again.  I can tell you about my first visit to a shrink.  I have a feeling I’m going to be paying this woman a lot of money to hear her say “that must have really made you feel sad”.

But here I am tonight, in a city other than my own, with a raw throat that threatens sickness, with swollen eyes from crying so hard as I finished A Thousand Splendid Suns wondering what to do as the sun sets – I can eat room service (again), I can go downstairs to the overpriced steakhouse (if I touched up my eye makeup), I can go to my favorite restaurant around the corner for their famous happy hour – none of it appeals to me, and I’ve eaten almost nothing all day.

I’ve decided to take a solo vacation in July when work finally slows down.  I realize that nothing gets me excited – Spain, Belize, Buenos Aires, Costa Rica?  Spa trip? Yoga trip?  It all just feels so sad to me – wandering around a city alone.  I used to travel alone all of the time.  I realize it’s a sign of my depression – things that I once loved no longer interest me.  It’s the reason I’ve lost 18 pounds.

The therapist helped.  It felt cathartic after our session.  I’m looking forward to seeing her again on Monday.  I’m looking forward to getting home – I could have left tonight.  I should have changed my flight.  A rub from my cat could have been cathartic as well.

Room service won out tonight.  You probably already knew that.

Days since I’ve contacted my ex:  51 (15 days to go)

Days since I’ve searched for my ex: 3 (relapse)

What I am grateful for:  The strangers who got me through my birthday.

Packing

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Last night, I brought home a heavy cardboard box from work.  In its previous life, it contained the new fuser drum for our copier.  I placed the box on the bare wooden floor of my living room and folded back the flaps so I could peer into the emptiness inside.  On the bottom of the box, I placed Sunday’s old newspaper, carefully folding it to fit snuggly into each corner.  On top of the newspaper, I placed my ex boyfriend, bending his arms and legs as needed to fit.  Around him, I stuffed in our memories.  I fit in the Sigg bottle we used on our second and third dates to surreptitiously drink wine, I added his England sweatshirt he let me borrow, the sweater he gave me at Christmas and my favorite photo of us that sat proudly in my office for over a year.  I squeezed in the dim sum we enjoyed on Sundays, the night I gave him a shower after his sweaty show and his tennis shoe print that is still on my driveway – even after all of this rain.  I folded in his personal ad and poured in his morning smell, as well as our first kiss in the bar, the day he taught me to fly fish, and all the tears I’ve cried these past two months.  I packed it all in until the sides of the box bulged. I folded the flaps down and pushed them together with my knees as tight as I could as I taped the box closed.  One long strip of tape across the length of the box and thee across the other way ensured it was sealed.  I smoothed the tape firmly with my hands and marked the box with a thick sharpie with the word “PAST”.  I wrote the word in large block letters on the top and all four sides.  I lifted the box, heavier than I expected, and took it into the garage.  By stepping on an old chair, I was able to hoist it into the rafters, but I could still see the word “PAST” on the box from my vantage point on the chair.  I grabbed the broom leaning on the wall and used the broom handle to push the box farther and farther back, as far as the broom would reach with me outstretched and on my very tippy toes.  I pushed the box back into the dark corner of the rafters with the thick layers of dust, the black widow webs and the big brown cockroach nests until I could barely see the tip of the box’s corner.  I stepped down from the chair, placed the broom back against the wall, turned off the garage light, locked the door and washed my hands in the kitchen sink.  It would soon be forgotten there.