It’s been three weeks since the pizza of doom. I’m kind of surprised that I’m still incapable of pulling myself together. This morning I woke up and decided it was time to put his stuff in a bin bag and get it out of sight. It’s no fun seeing his protein bars in the fridge, his jeans hanging in my wardrobe, his aftershave in my bathroom cabinet. I felt positive about this decision. I would get my flat hetoxed. I would put new sheets on my bed. I would deep clean. Everything would feel fresh. And fresh would feel better.
Very ambitious. Very naive. Wow. I had no idea it was going to hurt this much. As soon as I opened “his drawer” the tears started. Big, ugly, sobby tears. My neighbour must have heard me howling, I’m quite sure. At one point I thought I was going to vomit from crying so much.
Anyway. I’ve packed everything away. My flat is so teensy, tiny that I can’t really get “the bag” out of sight. It’s blatantly going to sit in my bedroom like a giant, mean elephant in the room.
I decided to keep going and clean out my entire life so have been through my wardrobes and drawers sorting clothes into ‘keep’, ‘bin’, and ‘charity shop’. Here’s the weird thing: all my stuff smells of him. Even things that I’m sure I never wore when we were together.
I love his smell. I always did.
Why is my nose torturing me? Does stuff really smell of him or am I imagining it? Can he smell me at his house? And when the hell is this going to get easier?
The thing is, I guess I don’t want everything to feel fresh. Because fresh means he’s gone.
Pizza of Doom 
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