i had always been an ignorer.
and that’s what happened that day.
when the news hit me. i automatically went numb. my mental faculties stopped responding to the sink in my gut and the drop in my heart rate. i was conscious more than ever. one could call it being alive.
but i really just wanted to be dead.
i couldn’t believe my ears. i had loved him and i loved him still. and i would continue doing so for a really long time. something that he had made sure just this moment.
but my brain would not register anything.
yet i knew how important it was for me to show some sign of care, pain, agony.
after all, isn’t that why they give you bad news and stand there waiting.
so i tried to let out a few pragmatic tears and bang the door shut behind me. i slapped and jabbed and screamed at him as loudly as i could.
but none of it was real pain.
it was a survival instinct.
a week later. i was alone.
my routine was in place. my feelings were in the attic and my mind on the front porch.
i was going about my life like nothing had gone wrong.
morning jogs, work, parties, it was all in place. except me. i was shaken and still pretending.
now that i look back, i was just scared. scared of collapsing into a heap of wreckage, unable to fix the pieces of myself in the process.
i wish i could tell myself that being scared is normal.
that in order to glue back that lost part of ourselves, one must first have the courage to fall apart.
that one must be able to exercise the right to be angry if one feels angry.
that some secrets, no matter how deep they may be, are meant to be released in order to create that free space. that void can be good.
my microcosm of torment was never supposed to be my home. and even though it was his fault, i was the only one guilty for my suffering.