I wanted to reach for him. To hold him. To temporarily let him burrow into my brain to let him know I wouldn’t break his heart. That I am not his ex wife. That I will never be his ex wife. But I knew him well. I know when he gets overwhelmed he shuts down. It’s not his most attractive quality, but we all have unattractive qualities, don’t we? It’s about looking past all of that. The bluster and the bullshit.
Fields of lavender in Provence. The blue and gold sparks of the sun and sky. Even that afternoon we got caught in that rainstorm. I took Sean’s hand and ran into the nearest coffee shop. (Two hot chocolates and one donut). I could feel the wholeness of it all. The weight of it all. Sean leaning against me. Me leaning against you. (Love must live here).
There is not much I can say at this point. You have made up your mind. And acceptance is much harder to find than I thought. I have muddled up the first four stages of grief. Silk pillowcases of denial, hot coals of anger – so much anger – 4 a.m. prayers to God, and then a four shots of vodka kind of depression. I don’t want to believe it. When the way you held me at night, pressed yourself into my spine, and whispered into the splitting ends of my hair – you knew I was in love with you.
To be clear, depression is not really a distinct kind of sadness, but more of a numbness. Like walking on shards of broken glass and not giving two shits that your feet are being sliced raw. Or not really giving two shits about anything for that matter. That and beginning to realize that everything around you is incredibly irritating. Nails against a chalkboard irritating.