Though every day is filled with meaning in some form or another, reasons to go on, things that affirm my own life, making a difference of some kind or other, finding that other people genuinely like having me around; I find myself, every night, feeding and fueling the demons of my own demise.
I don’t know exactly what it is but at the end of every day, and I mean *every* day, I find myself at the business end of the bottle. I excuse it by saying that it and the combination of medication is going to be the only way for me to sleep but at the same time it fuels hours long contemplations about the ex and how, why, we wound up where we are.
Those are simply answered enough. It doesn’t make it any easier to let go and move on. It’s largely due to the fact that I resolved myself to never “go after” that one thing that I “want more than anything else”. I had it and I failed at it. There’s no getting around that.
So, although, my days are spent actually making a difference, my nights are spent in the kind of existential angst we usually sneer at teenagers for going through. But I don’t care about judgments or opinions. I know what I lost. It hurts. Every night.
I wish there were some way to not think about it but it’s there. In the silent corners of my new “home”. In the aroma of the bakeries nearby or in the purchasing of items to make this place feel more like “home”.
And yet it all feels so shallow and stupid. I feel so shallow and stupid for letting my heart push me around this way. For letting… making… me care about someone who clearly doesn’t feel the same. If they did, they’d speak up.
Our lives aren’t better apart. But I’ve said that a million times. Another million won’t make a difference. And neither will I. But I keep waking up.
“holding on to what I haven’t got”…. indeed.