It’s not something I think about too much, or so I thought. It’s happened, it’s the reality, and I suppose it’s for the best. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
My friends support me in this, are surprised at the way I’ve handled it all. They think I’m strong. I used to agree.
I haven’t been sleeping well. My subconscious apparently has something to say. In the waking hours, I’m fine. I’m ridiculously busy, getting home only to sleep, balancing my work with my freelancing with my karate with teaching kickboxing with my social life with my love life with my exhaustion. Somehow, apparently, it works. Yet when I finally do get to sleep, an hour later than planned every evening, I find myself mulling over the very things that I avoid during the day. I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, but have been able to separate my dream-time dramas from reality, only occasionally having that ‘pit-of-the-stomach-post-dream-angst’ that happens after a particularly perilous dream.
It’s now become the norm.
What I hate most, besides the unsettled feeling in my stomach that I can’t seem to escape, is the inconsistency of it all. I’ve vacillated between anger, hurt, loneliness and sadness, only to return confused as to how I’m supposed to be feeling. I want to tell my subconscious to stop it, to pick one, because I can handle that. I know that the sadness will abate. I know, too, that the anger does me no good. I know that the loneliness is easily remedied, and the hurt? Well, that will pass too. In due time. But all at once? It’s somewhat overwhelming.
I awake from these dreams feeling predominantly ashamed. "I’m stronger than this," I think. "Even my friends can recognize it. I should be past this." And I’m nearly there – I firmly believe that I am. After all, the decision was partly mine, and I don’t see things changing anytime soon that would make me happy to the extent that I deserve to be. Prolonging the inevitable doesn’t help anyone in the long run, and I – for some reason – held my tongue too many times in the midst of it all; continuing that pattern is only going to lead to further disillusionment and unsatisfaction. Really, Aubrey, it’s for the best.
And yet I remain in this struggle, the battle between what I BELIEVE I’m feeling and what, apparently, I truly am. I’ve feigned apathy, employed the "fake it ’til you make it" rule that, 9 times out of 10, somehow works. The public acknowledgement of the truth here, on my website, is only fostering my vulnerability, and could perhaps be a huge mistake in judgment. Yet it’s the only outlet I can think of, the exposed shedding of my pride, to acknowledge that truly, this IS the way I feel.
I’m still angry.
I’m still confused.
I’m still hurt.
I’m still sad.
The language of loss is surprisingly succinct.