I don’t know how to reconcile what’s been going on inside me with how I really feel. The moment the words I had been holding back, for months, longer maybe even, passed through my lips I wished I could swallow them back down. Even though they taste bitter and leave my stomach aching. I wished none of it to be true. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is.
We stare at each other, eyes swollen and barely open, cheeks damp with the sadness of it all. I inhale deep greedy sobs, drowning in my own emotion. I did this to myself. I did this to us. I wish I could take it all back.
I got back from vacation last night and so, today, between my days off and being back to reality, I have been living in a daydream. I’ve been sitting on the couch for the past hour, neglecting all of my “back to routine” responsibilities (laundry, gym, cleaning, groceries, etc), in favour of thinking about what could’ve, should’ve, and might be. I can’t help but feel like I am not where I am supposed to be.
It isn’t really that even, it feels more like I am not who I’m supposed to be. I’m going through a bad phase with social media where I look at other people’s accounts and compare my own and I feel like I look so incredibly superficial and boring. There’s no real content to my life. I worry that this speaks to a deeper level of dissatisfaction from the superficial happiness I have been experiencing.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it though. Go do what ought to be done, to start (laundry, gym, cleaning, groceries, etc), and then maybe work on re-prioritizing. But also remember that social media is not an actual representation of the ways in which people are living and experiencing their lives.
I have lived in this shared one bedroom apartment with my craigslist roommate for close to three years. I have stared out at the dirt and mildew stained walls outside my window thousand of times thinking about my life and existence and the future. I keep feeling like I will be sad when I leave on Saturday, but I suddenly realized that this place has never really been my home.
In my transient young adulthood, this is the longest that I’ve ever stayed in one place, but the yellow tiled bathroom and beige walls don’t belong to me. No matter what efforts I put in to making this place mine, the calendar on the wall, or chalk boards with my to-do lists, it never really felt quite right. It was always a shared place, not fully my own. I think about all the memories I’ve made here, all the ways that I’ve really come into my own and become a person I am happy to be, and built relationships here and a life, but that isn’t about the place itself.
Sure, I will miss the memories, and maybe a little bit of the freedom I had in this ~300sq ft room, but this place was never really my home. Now I have the chance to make a real one for myself, if I am ready to give up the idea of myself as a transient youth and move forward into a real life with someone. It’s scary and overwhelming, but I’m ready to say goodbye to this non home and move forward into a real house with plants and dogs and friends and a man who loves me.
So goodbye, mildew stained paneled wall. I don’t think I’ll miss you.
I sit on the train, my head resting against the rain soaked window pane. I watch as a water drop slowly moves its way towards me and then I look up, wondering if anyone is watching the sad girl staring out the window. But then I remember that this is not a romance novel; no one is going to see my hunched shoulders and teary eyes and want to fix me.
Many a good man has tried. They have kissed my scars and held me as I cried, but their compliments wained and I went back to my old ways: scratching at my skin and barely holding myself together. This is not a romance novel. I have to be the one to save me in the end.
This is something I shouldn’t admit- but sometimes when I really miss you I go back and read all of our text messages from the very beginning. It takes a long time just to scroll up and even longer to read all of them. I laugh and smile a lot, and cry even more. Sometimes it’s happy tears, reading something you said that is so sweet and sincere that it melts my heart all over again, but mostly I feel a great sense of loss.
I don’t like feeling wrong- I read those messages and still feel like we really had something good. I was wrong again I suppose. At a certain point it’s hard to keep passing the blame; I’m the common denominator in all of my failed relationships. It’s easy to say that I’m so amazing and all these guys are blind, stupid, asshole, idiots: but is that really true?
I read our messages over and over again. I cry because I can feel the loss every time. I was wrong, and this time being right actually mattered.
I wonder about the silence- about all the things we choose not to say in between. What lies there? What is being left unsaid in your commas and your abbreviations? Are there secrets there? Or is it just that: silence?
Silence has its own sound though.
I think that it’s slightly ironic- you hear a sad song and think of her, while I listen to the same song and thing of you. I guess someone is always hurting and there’s always someone else hurting them. Everything comes back around eventually.
I wonder which is worse- the silence or actually hearing what else there is to say.
I still look for your car outside my apartment every time I come home, thinking maybe you’ll be there. I know you’re not and that you’re probably never going to be again. Tears sting at my eyes as I write those words, but you’ve gone days without talking to me by choice. It’s so easy for you and you don’t even have a clue what you’re doing to me. I should let it go and move on but instead I wait, my stomach in knots with every hour that passes; what if I never hear from you again?
I deserve so much better- I deserve what you gave me before. Yet I still look for your car every time I come home, a flutter of hope inside of me before I turn the corner. I know you’re not there and I know you never will be, but I hold onto what you gave me before.