Only When I'm Breathing

“You know, these last two years have been the hardest ones of my entire life,” I said. “If I took all of the bad, tragic things that have ever happened to me, about 90% of them happened between 2013 and 2014.”

“I know,” my mother answered on the end of the other line. “It’s true. It’s been that way for us too."

***

I was coming home from work last night, a little later than usual, and I saw a guy jogging. At first I thought it was Hot Shirtless Jogging Dude, but as he got closer, I saw that it was actually Matt. Our eyes met and locked. I hadn't seen him all year. He lives in my neighborhood, yet we almost never cross paths. He passed by, and I shamelessly watched him as he jogged away.

I had felt cute all day. I’d walk by guys at work and smile, because I thought my hair and my clothes looked good. But when Matt looked at me, I didn't feel cute anymore. I felt drab. My clothes were boring colors and not as flattering as I had thought. My hair was childish and frizzy. The moment I looked into his eyes, I saw myself through his, and I was old, dull, and countrified—as if I had never left the cornfields I grew up in.

And then it hit me. The guys I've dated since him never really mattered. Sure, they were a lovely distraction for a while, and maybe I even learned a few things along the way. But I never really loved them—not in the way I loved Matt. And when we broke up, I was sad for a little while over them, but within a month, or even in one case, just a few days, I discovered that it wasn't these most recent guys who I missed. It was Matt. It had always been Matt.

A friend had once asked, “Do you miss him?” To which I answered, “Only when I’m breathing.”

It’s been a year and a half, slowly creeping into 2 years, and I still miss him with that same kind of regularity. I have a friend who recently lost her boyfriend of 4 years. I want to tell her that it’s going to be alright, that the pain goes away in time. I want to pat her hand and smile as I offer words of encouragement. But I can’t, because I don’t even have that kind assurance for myself. So instead, I just tell her, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

***

These have been a hard two years. But oddly enough, I wouldn't undo them. I wouldn't ask for Mom Mom and Carvey and Anita to come back, because they’re better off. They don’t suffer anymore.

I wouldn't wish that I had never met Matt, because with him, I learned I can love and be loved as I never realized was possible. I really wouldn't change any of these things, or even the unmentioned ones that I don’t talk about here, because out of these dead hopes and dreams and empty spaces in my heart, grew some things that are even heartier than what I lost.

God talks to me now. You know, back home, I was safe and un-rattled by life. I didn't need comforting, so God didn't have to comfort me. But now, some days, he’s the only one here, and I need him. God knows I need him. So he talks. Sometimes I hear him, sometimes he sends words through friends, sometimes he sends me physical, tangible messages. And you don’t know joy or amazement until you've heard God speak.

And my friendships are deeper. Yes, I had wonderful friends when I lived back home. I have a very strong support system in my little circle of girlfriends, but I never knew how strong until I moved away. It’s one thing to be friends when you live close by and can visit whenever you wish, but it’s another thing when the people you love make the long drive, spend money on the hotel room, and come to see you simply because they miss you, or because they want to surprise you at your very first play in a new theatre. I didn't know how strong my friendships back home were until I moved away, and I wouldn't replace that for anything.

***

So it’s hard, but I’m breathing. I miss those who are gone; I miss those who moved on without me. But I’m breathing. Missing them, but I’m breathing. 

A Diamond for a Lonely Woman

I

Started

Off alone.

Then you came

Along and you took my

Hand. Suddenly we were two

And it was the most wonderful thing.

Then you left and my world got

Narrow. I was alone again.

Now I’ll never

Be us. Just

Me. 

Caught off Guard

I had a quick thought today of the Peake Players—the theatre group that I used to work with back home. I can’t even remember the exact thought, but it made me think of Anita, the director of group. I had a brief moment of, “I should message her and tell her…” and then the thought stopped there. Then I remembered:

I can’t message her. 

I can’t talk to her. 

I can’t send her a card or give her a call.

And my brain just sort of tripped out for a moment. That’s never happened to me before. In the past, when I missed someone I always had the option to contact them in some way. And even if I didn't end up talking to them, it was still a comfort to know that I could if I wanted to.

This is the first time I've thought of someone and not been able to reach them in some way. And it freaks me out. I've never had this feeling before. It’s weird and I don’t understand it. You’d think that after living for a quarter of a century that you've had all the “feels” (as the kids are saying these days) that you’re ever going to have. But that’s not true. There are still so many more things to feel, to experience—still so many things that are going to hurt you.

I guess I was caught off guard.

5 Things I Learned About Being an Adult

1. Adulthood is about always being tired. Seriously, I think I’m more tired now than I was when I was a student. In college, I kept weird hours. I had classes scattered throughout the day, interrupted by some hours of shift work, so my schedule was always changing. If I was tired, I could go home and crash after a class or a shift, catch up on my zzzzzz’s, and then be fresh for the rest of the day. When you work a regular 8-5, you just go home tired every day. There is no “catching a nap” anymore.

Adults have to deal. Growing up, I rarely saw adults crying or showing grief. Recently, after my great grandmother passed away, I watched my family. So few people seemed absolutely distressed. But, after talking to some of them and hearing about some of their quieter moments, I realized that they all were heartbroken and grieving. Appearances are deceiving. Everyone was suffering. They just carried on, dealing with it quietly and in their own ways. I admire that kind of strength.

Adulthood is painful. I know I was lucky, but I had an idyllic childhood. Nothing bad really happened. My parents protected me and my siblings from a lot of hardships, and I spent most of my days running and playing in the woods and farm fields. It was magical. But then adulthood hit, and I've come to find that it’s full of death, broken relationships, disappointment, and heartbreak. Now, that’s not to say that I don’t have a great life, because I do. But it’s a different sort of wonderful than my childhood was. While my adolescent years blurred together as one big hazy time of play and joy, my adulthood has been marked with significant times of pain and loss.

 Adulthood is about pretending you know what’s going on. I think few people actually feel like an adult. Often when you ask someone how old they feel, or how old they think they behave, the person will say, “I feel 18,” or “I act like I’m 12.” Adulthood kind of creeps up on you, and down deep, I think we all still feel unsure about our lives, where we are going, what we are doing. Few people (if anyone) have their lives figured out. As a kid you think that adults know what’s going on, that they fully have a grasp on taxes, politics, or how the world works. But in reality, we just pretend that we understand all those “grown-up” things so that we can get by, so that children feel safe. As adults, sometimes we just pretend to comprehend what we think everyone else expects us to know.

 Adulthood is about learning. It’s a journey. As a kid, you think that when you've reached adulthood (first it’s 18, later it’s 21, and later than that you realize it’s probably never), that you’ll have everything figured out. You’ll think that you've “arrived,” that you fully know what you believe, your stance on politics, religion, etc. But in truth, the learning never stops. It shouldn't stop. How we see the world, what we know about the world is always changing as we grown and learn. And that’s a beautiful thing…even if it is frustrating at times.

Talk to Me

Talk to me about work:

About the letters due at the end of the week.

Talk to me about the weather.

“It’s been rainy as of late.”

Talk to me about your dog,

Your new love,

Your car.

Talk to me about anything,

Just…

Don’t ask how I am,

Or how I've been.

Don’t make me say,

“I’m alright. I’m okay.”

I know it's what you expect,
But I just can't answer today.

Everyone's Got Them

Everyone’s got them.

There are days where you just want to curl up and die. Literally. Death just seems like a good idea. This isn't a suicidal cry for help, it’s just the plain truth. Some days it’s hard to just keep breathing. Maybe you pray to be allowed to die. Maybe you think about how cozy the idea of death sounds, how comforting, how quick.

But then, you get a reminder of why you’re still here, still living. I had a few of those reminders yesterday. The depression was especially heavy, and I wasn't getting out of bed. I slept or lay in bed nearly all day. I didn't even really want food. As I was sleeping, my roommate knocked on my door.

I groggily told her to come in. She was carrying a HUGE bouquet of brightly colored flowers.

“Some redheaded guy brought them to the door. He didn't know I wasn't you, so I guess he was just delivering them. Who are they from?” she asked.

I unfolded the card; my eyes still not clear because I had fallen asleep in my contacts. “It’s from my best friend!” I said. Sure enough, she had sent me flowers and a card. And that was when it hit me. There are so many things to live for. Even when you lose one loved one, lose one friend, there are still so many strong relationships, so many people who are still there for you.

Later that evening I was praying for God to send me a sign that he was there, that he was close. I was begging to feel his presence, craving his nearness. I finished praying, and about a minute later, I received a text message from a dear friend. The text said, “God is close.”

I think I got my answer.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m thankful for the people in my life who care, who check on me, who send flowers, bring food (thank you for the Panera soup and the company!!), give a gift, spend time with me when I’m down. Those are things that they don’t have to do, yet they do them anyway.

And I know my situation wasn't that dire, but I think sometimes that those little acts of kindness, those little moments of showing that you care actually are what saves lives, or at least rescue a person from falling deeper into depression.

So, I’m going to remember this, pass it along, and maybe someday, someone will tell me, “Hey, you saved me that one time…I just wanted you to know.”

I'm Crying for Myself

I was so afraid that I wouldn't cry. I didn't cry at first when Carvey died. I think I may have damaged my soul a little when that happened, because deep inside, I could feel it crying.

When he passed, I had no previous experience with death. His was the first. I didn't know how to grieve. But then my beloved teacher and friend passed away, and I cried like a baby. I let out all the grief I had been feeling and everything came out in tears over my birthday weekend.

And now today. Last night I had the biggest fight I think I've ever had with anyone. It was with one of my best friends, and the night ended in silence. And even though we didn't even say goodbye as I got out of the car, I felt like it might be goodbye forever.

I feel like hell, and early this morning, my mom called to tell me that my great grandmother passed away last night.

I can’t stop crying. I didn't think I was going to even be able to grieve, but I think with all the loss that I've experienced in the last two months, maybe I was prepared to grieve for her.

And I know that there really isn't any need to cry for Mom Mom. As the cliché goes, “she’s in a better place.” Honestly, she’s where I want to be. Now I don’t mean that in a morbid, suicide way. But, this world is hard, and it hurts. I want to be where God is, where Mom Mom is.

I have no real reason to cry. My tears aren't because I’m sorry for Mom Mom. She’s no longer confined to her little bedroom, no longer ill. She’s better off. She lived a full, almost 94 years, and now she gets to be with God for a well-deserved rest.

Selfishly, my tears are for myself.

I keep hearing an old John Denver song. It’s a song about separation, not death, but some of the verses keep playing in my head:

It’s cold here in the city. It always seems that way. I've been thinking about you, almost every day. Thinking about the good times. Thinking about the rain. Thinking about how bad it feels alone again.

And the one verse that keeps coming up the most is that one that seems to sum up how I feel:

More than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, for living without you.

 And that’s just it. She’s not here anymore, where she’s been for all of my 25 years. Now I have to live the rest of my life without her. I know that I’m incredibly lucky that I got to spend a quarter of a century with my great grandmother, but that doesn't mean that I don’t still want her.

So, more than anything else, I’m crying for myself, because the only grandmother who I really had a chance to get to know, the only one who was really there for me all the days of my life, is gone. And God, I knows I miss her.