Nine Months

The nine months without him were probably the hardest months of my life. I had made it through the break up with the father of my child, leaving home, my uncle and grandfather dying, a suicide attempt, a rape but losing him cut a little deeper than all of those. I don’t think I will ever be able to quite put it into words what happened to me in those months. It really was like I was drowning, constantly struggling to breathe, struggling to alert people to my pain; a gut wrenching sob on the kitchen floor pain.

 

I think that there were more nights than not that I cried myself to sleep. I don’t think that there was ever a 72 hour gap between drinking. I spent my days as a zombie, dragging myself through work and routine and then my nights drinking myself into a coma so I could get some sleep. I’m not proud of my behaviour but I am also aware that it doesn’t matter how together I could have been when he left, I would still have been a wreck.

 

Somehow over a year later I am here again. He isn’t even gone yet and all I can do is drink until I have some semblance of sleep as a possibility. I can read as many quotes in the world about moving on but I can’t. I can’t get him out of my head. Maybe it is another thing that I can blame on my past or maybe it isn’t. I can’t show someone what I am feeling but I expect them to understand anyway.
Maybe that is the problem; I give nothing and expect something in return for it. And I let it cut me far deeper than it should. I don’t know how to stop but I don’t know if I should.