So I was very antsy tonight. I was watching a DVD on my computer (Nurse Jackie, if you’re interested), but I kept pausing it about every five minutes or so to check Face.book, to check Bloglines, to get a snack, to open the fridge and stare blankly at it’s contents before closing the door, to check the laundry, to do nothing. I had had kind of a down feeling all evening (actually, since the afternoon), and the good part is that it feels different than it felt before, I could just notice it, it didn’t engulf me. Still, it was there, and I kind of wondered what it was about, but not too much, I mean, not to the point that I actually tried to figure out what was going on. Right.
So I was away from the computer and the DVD for a few moments and it hit me, square between the eyes: I miss him.
And I don’t have to remind myself that I’m so glad to not be with him, and I don’t have to remind myself of how awful it could be to live with him, to be tethered to him, because that part never leaves me. I don’t forget that part.
What I forget is that I had fun with him. What I forget is that the most exciting times of my life were spent with him. What I forget is that I was in love with him. What I forget is that I’m probably still in love with the person I thought he was.
For about a week or so I’ve been having these really good memories of X and me. Memories that make me happy to remember them. Very bittersweet. Memories of feeling happy with him. (And again, no need to remind anyone of who he really is, and what he really did, because that’s the part that doesn’t go away.)
It’s been kind of amazing to reconnect with the happy pieces, because, well, without them it’s like the six years or so we were together just becomes a black hole, pages ripped out of a diary.
I was talking to my friend, Cherry, about this earlier this week, about how I’ve been remembering good things, and not feeling awful about it. She said, good, this is more real.
The thing is, it’s so much easier not to miss him. It’s so much easier just to focus on the waste, on the sadness, on how much I have left to heal, on how much he took from me. That’s easier, believe it or not. To only see the shadows of our time together.
That’s easier, because then I don’t have to miss him. I don’t have to miss how it felt to share so many inside jokes with him. How I would just say a couple of words, and he would know the whole story behind them. How it felt to laugh with him. How it felt when we were happy. How good it was when it was good.
But this is real. This isn’t a fairy story where things are strictly “good” or “bad.” This is not black, is not white. This is starting to see the picture as a whole—the shadows, the light, the color, the darkness.
And it’s sad.
And sometimes it feels like such a waste.
And I know I have much left to heal.
And I know that he took so much from me.
And I miss him.