They say suffering is relative. I say this. And I hope that in all the days that come after this one, I find a way to see that through the water and maybe this won’t feel like drowning so much. It’s not so much like having a carpet pulled out from under your feet as it is visiting a house you built with your own hands and having to take it all apart, brick by brick. It’s looking inside and knowing you’ll never live there, cook eggs in the kitchen, fall asleep on the couch. It feels like drowning in sea water after you thought you learnt to swim. It’s exactly like that- all salt water, and blood in my ears, and a sting in all the hurt places. There’s so many more of those now.
People live through love and its leaving and they choose themselves, and this is something I know that I know. I did not think this would ever be something I had to live through. I built this house without ever imagining it wouldn’t keep me safe. And mostly, while all the water comes rushing in, I think about the small things, movies watched together and wrestling, inside jokes, learning to make strong enough coffee and the dress I found when we were together the one December we really were happy. And the little things break me apart. Knowing their size does nothing to diminish their strength. I’ve only just written about maybe finally knowing the way home feels like. And if I still believed in any of it, that would seem a strange coincidence.
There’s a sort of broken hopefulness about it, knowing this happens, and others get through it. There is a way through, even though my eyes can’t see it from all the stinging. There is a cycle to this, a way to predict what I’ll feel next and maybe that makes me feel better, and maybe it just feels like more empty words. No one ever said I’d have to choose to leave this house I made, we made, without having anywhere to go. What if there isn’t anywhere to go?