Right now I’m blissed out on my fine self, my hair dancing around my face as I find myself totally in love with this band, every cell responding to some weird call, music I shouldn’t like but dammit, makes my body shake and quiver. I’m excited-change makes me happy, change opens my eyes to what can be, what should be, who I can be. A new, fresh start. Shiny.
Then later, as I go to sleep alone, my arm stretched out across the other side of the bed as it has been for so many months, the distance between up palatable and real, I feel the ache and the raw red void that describes my heart, and I want to weep and mourn but instead I swallow the drugs I innocently asked my doctor for and pass out into a dreamless sleep, waking in the morning blank and new, like a baby, smooth and pink.
I want to cry myself to sleep. I do. I want to be wounded and surprised and angry and all those things I feel flickering across my brain. Gods, I want something to talk about other than this fucking divorce and how scared I am that despite my being ok with being alone and occasionally having a “friend”, I’m terrified that I’ll never find someone to fill that place in my heart that’s currently sweeping out its corners and cobwebs while muttering “dammit, why did no one take CARE of this place!?” I try and focus ahead on my future but then little things like money or my ugly fucking bathroom intrude and my happy place expires until I can bring it back with simple, simple words.
Darling, it simply doesn’t matter.
And it doesn’t. The material things, the stuff I surround myself with, the house and the books and the dog ugly fucking bathroom-they are merely things. They do not love me, they do not hold me late at night when life scares the tiny bubbles from my lips, they do not hold me up when the world steps too solidly on my back. They are things, and they can be taken away.
Every morning I step off a bus on my way to work, and walk into the sunrise. Almost every morning, despite the cold I can’t quite shake, despite the itch to my dry tired eyes, I am face to face with the most glorious sunrise, likely the same as the day before, but each day still able to shake me from my slumber and self pity and remind me that a world with something this quietly beautiful must have more to it than my shattered heart. Perspective in a peach pie sky.
I have grieved before in my life. I know that I’m approaching acceptance at a frightening pace. I know that it won’t last, that I’ll slip much like an addict and likely find myself some day in a month or 3 holding something breakable and contemplating throwing it, hard at someone or something. I’ll be flush with rage.
But, it will be ok. It will pass and I’ll look at a daughter or a lovely backyard covered in snow or bloom and see my future. All things pass. All things become new. This back and forth I feel, the cowering and the crowing-all normal. This hurt-it’s less than that I’ve felt before, maybe because it’s stretched for years. But I started mourning this marriage ages ago. And I’m, mostly, ready to let it go.
Because there’s still beauty, and it’s waiting for me to find it.