Sunday, June 24, 2012
Fiction is the Only Way You're Dealing
There is a transformer in the glove box of my car that I discovered when I was changing out my insurance card. I shut it quickly and will forget about it for the next six months, because he'll never ride in my car and play with it again.
While folding my socks yesterday afternoon, I came across a tiny sock. Not mine, not Aiden's. Out of frustration I threw it behind the couch, where it is still laying. It has no mate, not where I live. I will probably pick it up and throw it away the next time I vacuum.
Little pieces of them are still clinging to the little pieces left of me. I find them in random places, cozy corners, in the songs I hear on the radio or the photos that I unexpectedly come across in my phone or iPod. I hear about movies, and they come to mind.
Not just one, not just the other, but ALL of them.
My heart doesn't just have one hole in it, but three.
I read and I write, and I sit alone in my room some nights and cry. I disappear, and it still doesn't feel like enough.
I am okay, until suddenly I am not.
I am chasing down all that is good in my life. I am surrounding myself with people who not only love me back, but don't invalidate the way I feel at any given moment. That give as much as they get, if not more. I have endless amounts of cuddles and forehead kisses, and people willing to sit with me so I don't have to do it alone.
I know I'm not the broken one. I know that I did everything I could and everything within my power to make this man love me, and it still wasn't enough. But even though I'm not broken, and even though I'm able to force myself into moving on, into looking back fondly, because so much of it was good, and so little of it was bad; I am still the one with three gaping holes in my heart.
It's always been so much easier for him to let go of me.