9 months, for 9 months losing love has taken its toll. I could have grown a human baby in my womb in the same amount of time. A whole baby.
Erratically bouncing me from thought to thought, from feeling to feeling. Loneliness, regret, anger, sadness, jealousy, self-hate to an extent I would never admit to anyone, rashness, indecisiveness, guilt, disgust, and then nothing — just nothing.
Sometimes, all I need is myself. Others, I am useless, a selfish, cold bitch. Too indecisive to take necessary action, who lets her own terror of the past and the future get in the way of making decisions, letting both of the people I love waste away in the same plethora of convoluted emotions as I do. Do I actually care about anyone? How could I do the things I did to someone? The things I am still doing?
It was the time I said “Fuck it, I’ll make it. I have myself — the ultimate bare necessity.” And I loved for a minute that I could say “Fuck it.” But “Fuck it” really is not always the answer to happiness. Because “it” means you’re fucking over everyone else in proximity to the decision, doing what you need to do in a moment of spontaneous desire, impulsive passion. ”It” is a stupid subject to replace one that actually matters, actually exists, a subject with no content behind it. ”It” means fucking over the person you loved, the person you had a future with, a beautiful future with because you forget what spending time together used to feel like.
And where has that left me? 10 months after I said “Fuck it” I’m in limbo. Maybe I put myself here. Maybe I’m punishing myself for everything I’ve done. I need to feel guilty. I need to live with this. The scars of what I have done, the dreams, listening to the person I loved tell me how exhausted he is and how he’s stopped taking care of himself. Watching him go down hill, then up on a random surge, then down, down, down. Watching him come back to me, almost begging, and watching my response be to do nothing. To ignore half of my heart. To ignore the promises. Now broken promises. (But I have new promises now.) Then watching him come around and treat me to a nice “Fuck you,” not a lame “Fuck it,” my half excuse, but a “Fuck you:” a fuck me. Just like I, inadvertently, cowardly fucked him when I was caught up in a world without consequences that, let me tell you, does not exist.
And I want nothing more, still, to make him happy. I want him happy. Sometimes, I wish I could make him happy, but I think I have lost that right even though he tries to give it back to me. Sometimes, I don’t deserve him. Sometimes, he’s deep and beautiful and everything I want. Sometimes, he’s an asshole. Sometimes, I’m happier without him. The power of missing things is very real. Sometimes, I’m so happy with who I have now. Sometimes, I think I’m hoping I will be. Sometimes, I look back on everything beautiful we shared. The little things. I remember when he drove me to the grocery store late at night to buy me contact solution, because I didn’t want to sleep in my contacts or throw them away. Sometimes, I remember him leaving me at a party and that he’s selfish too. Hell everyone is.
Sometimes, I’m fucking numb.
And sometimes I’m happy. Sometimes, I’m so happy with who I have now. So, so happy when I forget him. But I don’t want to have to forget him to get over him. Everyone fucking says “Time will tell,” but time makes you forget feelings, forget memories, forget the little things that made your world so fucking special. Paused everything around the two of you, any of the usual anxiety, external conflict, obligations. Made your own sanctuary. I hope I haven’t forgotten what it’s like. I hope I can have it all again. I can have it all again with him if I really wanted, or knew that I wanted. But it didn’t work thanks to me, and it’s really one step, but such a huge step to make it work again. I’ve hurt him, why would I ever choose to hurt someone again.
He’s a beautiful person, he is. But there are almost 7.2 billion people in the world, I’m sure many of which are very beautiful once you come to love them. Love makes everything beautiful. But then I get to thinking about fate and souls and true loves and soul mates and all that uncertain shit that’s there, seemingly invented to give us and our decisions some innate meaning. But fuck, to me my decisions have so much weight already, when I think about this I feel like I’m going to pop. Just pop. With everything pent up in of me. Soul-mating is an unnecessary complication of a concept. The imagination can be an extreme hazard to mental health.
What if I’m going to suffer for the rest of my life because of one time I unthinkingly chose to say “Fuck him.” And that’s unreasonable, I’m 19. I have time, like everyone tells me all the fucking time. A lot of time and a lot of experiences ahead of me, but just because I’m so young doesn’t mean the concept of a possibly great future ahead of me can make me just choose now to forget how fucking good it has been. How fucking high my standards are. And so, I must battle for 9 months? 10 months? 12? Will I regret this decision to leave my past in the past? Will I be happy with what I have now? Happier than what I did have? Is it right? Will it last? Will I let it?
9 months, 9 months and counting.