Rough doesn’t begin to describe the past couple of weeks.To put it bluntly, I fell back into the dark hole that I thought had been banished with loads of therapy, friendship, and love. The result: body dysmorphia, anxiety, sadness... I lost the happy-go-lucky attitude that came so naturally to me, and alongside that the love of my life.
We broke up. Twice. Sad to say it was me who did the breaking. Whomever thought that it was better to break up than be broken up with was a fool- at least when you’re broken up with you have a reason to resent them, a clean wound that is more aft to heal rather than a blunt one that festers and becomes infected and leaves a scar.
I cried for seven hours in the misty cold of a november night in the Harbor courtyard, and then some. Dawn came, a dreary miserable one at that, and with it some kind words of advice from a run-down looking elderly lady with a cigarette, come to clean Chesapeake hall, to scrub the floors of the dorms that the college kids abused.
“You’ve gotta look at the good threads, darling,” she consoled, holding her cigarette behind her and reaching down to give me a squeeze. “They might end, but that doesn’t mean that they weren’t glorious and won’t always be there for you to appreciate. It doesn’t mean they won’t make your life more complete and worth living.”
She took an enormous drag on her cigarette and blew out an enormous cloud of smoke that was anything but laced with menthol, from the smell of it, and threw it behind her. “Cheer up baby,” she muttered, reaching down to give me a full hug even as sobs wracked me once more, “anyone would be lucky to have someone like you. Okay?”
Not even five minutes spent with her and I felt better. I still do, and I always will.
The thread has been cut, but it’ll always be there. It’s the brightest one so far. I just hope that one day it starts up again- it would be a shame to lose such a wonderful thing.
Regardless of what happens... I love you 64.
