Journey In Grief: Ch. 1—Anger
(P.S. I made my flight.)
Authors note: Welcome to Day 12 of 12 Days of Christmas!
This first article is part of a series of works cataloging my journey through grief--The anger, the loss, the sadness, the denial, and eventually, the acceptance and hope that comes with it. This one is about the anger. If you've ever felt wronged and hurt and wanted to lash out at someone for causing it, I'm sure you'll relate to this one. Drop a comment and let me know what you think, and what parts you most identify with.
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I remember you were learning to sew, and I can’t remember if I told you how cool that was.
If we were still talking, I'd ask you about this tank top from Pride that’s too big. I know one tailor in town but I don’t know if tank tops are things people bring to tailors. Or I’d ask you for advice on how to do it myself. Or if you were feeling enthusiastic, I’d let you go at it.
But we’re not talking, so no, I’m not going to reach out.
After all, I remind myself, you have a husband now.
Then I remember how used and left behind and alone I felt. And how it feels like we both lost. But I lost more, because I lost doubly: a partner and a friend.
And you, you’ve got your husband. Your new last name. And you’re over there, in your happy new life.
Fuck you!
No, I wouldn’t say it to your face. I’m not even really saying it for you. It’s more just for me to hear. To remind myself to move on.
The games we play
Anyway. I stopped playing that stupid bubble game you showed me. Well, I played it a few times the other day. But no more!
Now I mind out with Minesweeper instead. It helps me zone out and focus on just one thing.
Like right now: I’m supposed to be packing. Well, no— I'm supposed to be sleeping after having already finished packing.
But I haven’t packed, so I haven’t slept. It’s as if waiting until the absolute last minute is my way to say fuck you and your spreadsheet planning for moments like this. So instead of packing, I’m numbing out to Minesweeper and writing these stupid thoughts of you that keep interrupting me.
When I pick the wrong mine and it blows up, I pretend it’s all your fault. I say Fuck you and it makes me feel better. I don’t mean it. It’s just what’s helping me get through.
See? I don’t need you
It’s 2:36am. My flight is at 6am and I can’t decide which book to bring with me. And I just feel like you would’ve had the perfect solution.
I'm just moving slowly, I guess. Cause it would’ve been easier with you. And now I’m stuck doing it by myself. And I’m fine. I’m fine. I can pick my own book.
Look I’ll pick it right now…but not a work-related one, because you’d remind me how I need to actually have a vacation..but I have one that’s half done…and there’s a new one I wanted to start…
Okay, I decided: I’m bringing two.
See? I don’t need you. Fuck you. (I don’t mean it.) But yea, fuck you. For not being here. Oh wait, yea, there was a time where you were in this exact place, here with me. All these miles away and states apart. It was nice when you were here. But now I’m here listening to a slow heartbreak song. And it’s looping on repeat, just the way you’d hate it. Good.
And if I miss my flight, it’s your fucking fault. And if I catch it but forget to bring something, you can count on me saying Fuck You in an easterly direction.
Who am I kidding?
Just sometimes I wish it could’ve been different. And I know it couldn’t. I know we’re two different people. Just a little too different. But sometimes I wish I was just a little less me or you were just a little less you so we could’ve made it work.
It’s like squeezing a gift in a box that a wiser, more honest part of you already knows isn’t going to be big enough. But you try to stuff it down, just for the sake of getting it into this damn box.
And who am I even kidding with all this? I broke up with you. Or did you break up with me? I’m not really sure. Things get muddy at the ends of things like that.
A bomb ticking…
We always knew there was an expiration date, a clock ticking down on us. We just didn’t know when the bomb would blow. And I guess I kept reminding us of it too soon. And somehow, I didn’t think it’d take the friendship, too.
Damnit! Why’d you have to hold my hand like that? The way you’d hold my hand, like we were really going somewhere. When we both knew, this wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d go to bed and cry but I haven’t packed which means I can’t sleep which means I can’t cry myself to sleep.
So now I’m clicking all the bombs I can find: Fuck Fuck Fuck You.
If my apartment neighbor hears me, I'll just say I have tourettes. Great.
I never hung those frames
And you know what else? I’ve still never hung those frames. For weeks I left them right where they were when you left. And I’m sure that’d piss you off. Good. Maybe it’s my way of spiting you. Even though you’ll never know. I don’t care.
It just feels fucked up that everything ended right after you got everything you wanted from me. How you used me. And maybe I signed myself up for it. But how could you do that to me?
And I just want to cry and sleep but I still need to finish packing. It’s 2:58am. I don’t know if I should drink an energy drink or try to pack and sleep an hour?
Maybe I’ll try the stupid bubble game…did you ever beat that high score? I hope I crush it just to show you up. Well, maybe not. Cause then I’d want to tell you about it. And that’ll hurt to need to hold back.
And I'm glad I forgot the chords to that song I wrote you! Because Fuck you. Not that its your song. It says more about me than you, anyway. I don’t want to play it, I don’t want to hear it. It just reminds me of a happy time, a time that felt like magic. And it feels like you took the magic with you. Fuck you.
Just a pit stop
I just hated being a pit stop for you. It felt good for a minute, but then it’s like a big mirage. Just a dream. And if it was gonna be a dream, why couldn't it just be a mediocre one? One that I wouldn’t miss so much.
And then I think of you happy, in your real, normal life, while I’m still here, dreaming and not sleeping.
Fuck you.
And I hate that you taught me what it feels like to be loved that deeply, and that you can’t be the one to still love me. I hate that you were just my teacher. And that the schools are changing.
Maybe I’m just not over how it used to be.
It makes me wonder if you’re over it. Or if there was anything for you to get over. Or if you’re just happy in your budding life. Sure, I’m happy for you. And also. Fuck you.
A distant memory one day
I’m gonna text my bro and see if he’s packed. He’s gotta be packed by now. It’s 3:06am.
Fuck. I lost the bubble game. What a stupid fucking game anyway.
And I just caught this massive fucking spider in my kitchen. I don’t need to tell you about it.
I just hope there’s a spider over there in your new happy life and that your husband kills it and you remember how I would always catch them and take them outside and I hope it makes you sad.
And fuck you, whatever.
I’ll move on from this. Maybe one day I’ll even forget about all this, whatever this was. Like a distant memory from when we were kids 15 years ago. I just need to fucking pack first.
