I suppose the amount of days since it happened don’t really matter anymore. The amount of days since we last fought, or cried, or manipulated one another into staying, and eventually cheated to leave.
Or… I guess that’s what I did because I couldn’t stay in it anymore, but couldn’t figure a good end. I had tried saying before that we weren’t right for one another and she begged me to stay. She said the same and I in turn was on my knees in tears. Things went on like this for years, accusing, lying, struggling, cursing, fucking. It wasn’t all bad and I know this because the only times I can seem to remember now are the good ones. There was more bad than good and I remember all of the good and the bad has disassembled itself and laid itself on the periphery and when I’m looking for it I can see it in the distance and can only feel the good. The interesting thing is that “good” when remembered in loneliness begets intense pain and sadness.
And so… I am immersing myself in it in order to move on.
Every few weeks now I go somewhere where my memories of her seem to bind my lungs. I know how it will feel before I go there, but go anyway.
Is just a metro bus.
Is just a place people shut off, listen to ipods, read papers, look unapproachable, laugh to themselves, phone a friend, waste away.
Is on a route to and from.
Was what I took everyday to and from the place I lived with her.
For eight months I avoided taking this particular bus in the direction of our old life. I actively looked for alternate routes to the same area if I needed to go, but one day my alternate route fell through. I had to be somewhere at a certain time and the only bus I could take was the next 2. As I waited my ribs began to lock and my breaths became more frequent, but I didn’t have a choice.
This would be my first immersion.
Step up. Sit down. Look. Breathe. Look. Breathe. Phone Check. Breathe. Breathe.
I was overwhelmed with panic. My first panic attack in months. “Breathe, breathe,” I told myself. “Must slow heart down.” This was a heart quickened with panic and pained with memory. I knew where I wasn’t going and that wasn’t home, or my old home, but my body wanted nothing more than to remember home and her and her body in our burgundy 400 thread count sheets she had bought because I thought they were beautiful. I thought that this must be what happens when one is about to die, so I must be dying.
I didn’t die.
Instead I called a friend and made him talk. Made him talk me out of my stupidity and the insanity of emotions because I could not cry on the 2. I could not be one of “those” people.
He talked me down.
My lungs began to let some air in. I somehow made it to my destination and shortly thereafter had a shot of cheap well vodka and relaxed. “Fuck her, fuck her for being good sometimes,” I told my friend. She sympathized and bought me another shot.
When it was time to go I couldn’t take that bus home and found a ride. Couldn’t do 2 in one day and let myself be with what it was, but the next time I took that route to the place I can’t go back to, it didn’t seem to hurt quite as much, just a singe, and later a tingle.
Now this is what I do.
Yesterday was the first time I let myself pass the courthouse. The jail/courthouse that I sent her to and she never forgave me and I never forgave myself for. The place I can never understand, the place I first cried so hard I fell on the floor in front of twenty people and screamed just for them to let me see her and let me touch her one last time. The place I told them that I had lied, even though I hadn’t. The place I held her so hard I almost squeezed her life out because I couldn’t stand the thought of letting her go. I walked by and stood outside for five minutes and just let myself cry softly on a cold autumn afternoon. Let myself remember that she is not mine anymore and love shouldn’t hurt like it did.
I will pass there again and maybe go inside one day to remove the remainder of a history that is over. I suppose it might be true that time heals all wounds, but it’s not healing them fast enough so I have to move it along anyway I can. If it is excursions to the past then it’ll have to do, if only to move me on to the next destination.