21+ Days
I count the days like an addict counts sobriety. Today is one week. I’m at ten days. Three weeks. But I’m not counting days since my last drink or my last smoke. I’m counting my days of freedom, of liberation, of choosing myself, of taking my power back, of choosing peace instead of pain, and more importantly, of listening to the thing that started as a subtle whisper - something’s not right here; you need to get out - which ultimately grew into an unequivocal siren call to exit immediately.
I have made it through 100% of my bad days thus far. I have made it through 100% of my bad days thus far. I repeat this mantra to myself as I stand in my kitchen trying to convince myself to eat something even though I have little to no appetite these days. Anyone who has suffered loss knows that grief is not linear. You can feel a mix of all the stages of grief in a day, week, hell even any giving moment. I’ll go from really feeling f**king pissed off (!) to feeling really sad and hurt in the same half-hour time span. It’s just a phase. It will pass. It’s just a phase. It will pass. I remind myself this part doesn't last forever. Even so, it doesn't make it hurt less. It doesn't make me less angry. But it does remind me that there is an “other side.” Logically I know there is. And I’ll get there, as I have before, treading along with a heavy heart.
Three weeks and counting. I silently clock the date to myself, even though every day my being still feels like a fresh throbbing wound. Every night is still chalk full of insomnia, anxiety, or bad dreams (that is if I get the chance to sleep for several-hour stretches). I go to bed, lights out and eyes closed pretending I can actually fall asleep, replaying every good memory, quickly coupled with an equally painful one, and on and on and on. I will myself to forget it all, but it replays in my mind like a favorite album - I know every lyric. I want to forget. I hate this part. Please let me forget.
I take daily walks, buy fresh flowers, light fall-scented candles, make my bed daily - the selfcare agenda. My house is so clean in a desperate effort to stay busy, but at this point I have run out of things to dust, wipe down, or vacuum. Every dish washed. Every counter cleaned. The moments of idleness, sitting down in stillness where my mind and heart are open and exposed, are constant invitations to my thinking, remembering, and feeling. I do not RSVP.
Three weeks and one day. I’m grateful for one more day of distance. I willingly accept time’s ability to take me further and further away. But the reality is that moving on is like a slow-moving train on the best days. I want the express expedited ticket.
I check my phone. Nothing. I check my email. Nothing. I close my email and check it again. Nothing. My absurd instinctive reflexes are futile and haven't caught up to reality. The pain of withdrawal surges through me like a wildfire burning everything in its path. There is no way but through.
