Day one again;
- The hangover
- The loathing
- The broken anhedonia, livened by creeping mania
And the overall understanding that moving on is not linear… so that’s progress, I guess. When you sit in the shower and watch condensation trickle down the glass for long enough your brain does start to work.
Just a little.
And somewhere in all of that a tiny part of me, the me that used to be me, clicked into place and held this time. I tell you, friends, this is the way forward; my mind might be held together with string right now, but I don’t need to keep all of the fragments. Neither do you. We practice minimalism in all other aspects of our lives… why not with ourselves? Because it’s fucking hard, that’s why.
Ridding yourself of unnecessary hang-ups, grudges, anger, self-hate, and fixations takes work. It’s the original, bona fide, uphill struggle, and sometimes it feels like this…
But it is the key.
So I’m going to write again. That’s the little piece of me I was telling you about (see, I do return to the point eventually); of course I write every day now, but I write other people’s work. I ghost write, I blog, I proofread, and I polish. And I love it. But I have a story or two in me somewhere.
And they need to get out.
So this is day one, or Day Zero, as it were, again in a less depressing way that it seemed when I woke up plastered to my sheets, still wearing last nights clothes, reeking of vodka and stir-fry (yes, I cook drunk. No, it is not a good idea).
Why do I tell you this in gory, unattractive detail?
Because grief and depression are not pretty separately, and they’re even less romantic when they go hand in hand; the loss of a long-term relationship is a death. The death of trust, the death of a love, and the death of a version of both of you that you had come to cherish. This is grief, and if any of you out there are going through this with me i’ll quote my grandmother; listen you to me – this is alright. You can do it. You don’t have to be pretty, or calm, or romantic and waif-like in grief. You can be loud and sullen and broken, or you can be dignified on top and shit-tip underneath.
Or you can sail through it (some people do).
All of this is ok, and yes I’m trying to convince myself as much as you, but bear with me. I have a cunning plan, and it starts with dragging my hobbies from under the bed to start again.