i had lost him and every time i thought about it my stomach would lurch and i’d find it hard to breathe and an ache - an actual, not just literal, ache - would form in my chest, so severe that i would clutch at my breasts and whimper into the pillows of the bed i refused to leave. i’d writhe around in the sheets, hoping that if wrestled myself under them far enough maybe i’d find him again, tan and freckled and warm and lean and he’d turn me on my side and slip his arm under my neck and and drape a leg over my hip and we’d sleep and everything would be fine. but he wasn’t there anymore; the bed was as empty as i felt my soul to be.
my phone would ring, my heart would spring into my throat and then drop into my pelvis. i was afraid to look at the screen, i wanted to avoid the disappointment. it was never him.
i slept a lot. i played nothing but The Cure and The Smiths and Joy Division. i was sad: i wanted to be sad. why on earth would anyone want to be anything else at a time like this? the world had ended. my world had, at least. i didn’t eat. i couldn’t eat. the thought of food made me nauseous. what was the point? maybe i could just starve to death. death would be less cruel than my life. my subsistence.
in the shower i had a panic attack; the first one of my life. my shrink loaded me with high dosage prescriptions to all sorts of things people get addicted to like valium and xanax. none of it worked, no matter how much i wished it would. my body’s natural high tolerance of medications, fucking me over once again. it helped to talk to her, and she set aside an hour to talk with me. she gave me no hope, only clarity. i had no hope. i was angry at myself, for allowing myself to care so much, for pretending for so long that i didn’t care at all. so long that he tired of it, and left.
