I still cry every day.
Last night I sobbed. A lot. Over nothing in particular.
But things are getting easier, because it’s all relative, I guess. A few months ago I was still breaking down in the most random of places – supermarkets, the bus, the gym, Starbucks. I use to sit in the cinema after movies ended and just cry while everyone else left. Then shuffle off home to cry in my bed.
It felt like I was suffocating. It was hot, impulsive, explosive crying. It overtook me. Sometimes I couldn’t stand. I usually couldn’t speak. It left me exhausted.
I remember sitting on Siesta Key in Florida (officially the Number One Beach in the US) on a glorious sunny day with heavy, blobby tears running down my face.
Clearly, wearing mascara was just not an option.
These days when I cry, it’s pointed. It’s acute. Things jab at me and bring very sudden, very sharp pain. Things like seeing another friend announce the arrival of a baby on Facebook. Or seeing someone act like an asshole on Millionaire Matchmaker. Or asking myself whether I can really see me ever meeting anyone (and deciding that no, I just can’t).
Things that would never have made me cry eight months ago.
Because eight months ago I had him.
The past two mornings I’ve woken up feeling deeply, deeply sad, and it’s taken me a minute or two to realise it’s from dreaming about him.
I talk myself around in circles of logic. And tell myself off for thinking about him at all.
I hate myself for it.
But I miss him so much.
Recent Comments