I’m not over it. I am still hurt. It is now, more than ever, that the pain, the soreness, the burning, the bleeding, has smacked me right down to the pavement. When I sent that email, I did so with the aim to finally get at least an ounce of closure. It’s been days without a response. Not an initiation for dialogue, not a “leave me the fuck alone,” not even a “same to you.” Nothing. And that makes me so mad, so sad, because that means that I am nothing, when once upon a time, I was everything. Or at least it felt that way. Now, someone else is that everything, and like yesterday’s newspaper, I’ve been replaced. Good for him, for having made such a swift transition from one to another, or as they say, no lag between the vag, But what about me?! A year I was stuck living in his shadow; all his friends were my friends causing his name to come up all the time. Even now that I’ve embarked on my journey of worldly travels, I’m left to do so in complete solitude. Maybe this is a test of my character, and if so, here’s to wishful thinking. But I put the dream of our intertwined lives up on a pedestal. I molded my future around the ambition of taking on the world as the inseparable teaching couple. I loved so hard. Harder than I’ve ever loved myself. I dreamed for the first time in my life. Dreamt that I found the love of my life and that everything, though not always peachy keen, would pan out perfectly. I lathered in the envy of others, girls and boys wanted what we had. Vacations in exotic places, junk food and movie nights, amazing teamworked grilled cheeses, the innumerable amount of shared showers, the best friendship. I reveled in his eyes because they were an amazing blend of sea blue and forest green, his hair because the roots were golden but some how became coffee brown at the tips, his skin because no matter how much he sweat he never stunk, his scarred leg because it told such a commendable story of strength and survival, his hands because they glided and maneuvered a cello so delightfully and never needed the slightest manicure. I loved the idea of him. The companionship. No matter how many times I say it and no matter how many times I try to fool myself, I can’t fully admit to being comfortable with solitude. It kills me. And this is why I loved him so much. Because he became my home, even though made of flesh and bones, he was my shelter. The holder of keys to my mind, body and soul. And now I’m homeless. Wandering this world without someone else to witness my every move. From August 2011-February 2014 we were each other’s documentaries.
I’m fucking sad and alone.
I don’t know how to shake this awful epidemic that is love. At the moment I am at a coffee shop sitting across from a cuddling couple and I want to burn them. Seeing the happiness, the togetherness of other makes me sadder and madder because its not fair to want what they have this badly and yet be left empty handed. I guess I just have to deal with it. The solitude. Meet my battle, kneeling with open arms, accepting all the misery it’ll bring. Maybe I need to set some goals.
While in Korea:
• Lose 30lbs. Mainly this because I am by no means attractive in Korean standards and my students overtly called me fat. It was so hard to keep myself from breaking out into tears, but they’re right. I am fat. My clothes doesn’t fit. When I look in the mirror I see a massive figure I’m not fond of. And when people compliment me, I take it as pity because I know they see what I see, if not worse and they’re just trying to be nice. Losing weight will require a lot of work and self-control, but it’s the only thing that I can do while I’m in Korea, then bring it on!
• Learn how to carry a basic conversation in Korean
• Pay off credit cards
• Only commit to someone who is willing to cultivate me. After all the pain I’ve had to deal with, I shouldn’t allow myself to put out to anyone unless it feel significant.
• Write, write, write.