the beginning, the end, and everything in between.

i heard from him last week.

an unwanted and panic inducing event on a friday that had begun with missing the bus. it was earlier than i to the bus stop and i wasn't late. for the first time that week!

i couldn't breathe.

not a good look in my new job. i'm smart and together and professional there. not...the lingering vestages of who i once was. not the result of nervous shocks in someone recovering from ptsd. something he contributed to. by taking advantage of the fact that my decision making processes were so impaired to think not as bad as that other one meant a good thing.

anything he could have wanted to say to me would have meant somefuckingthing if he paused long enough to respect my parting wishes to (and i quote) never, under any circumstances, contact me again.

what that meant then as now, is that i know i deserve(d) better - especially from him - because i wised up, too late, to what he did. that he'd finally found the end of my good will. there's always that point with me and there's no coming back. not for him. not ever. i don't need his apology because i don't need or want him in my life. it's irrelevant. one day he may be sorry, maybe not. it doesn't matter. from that point forward it had nothing to do with me. no matter what he could have to say to me became irrelevant. how can interaction be relevant to people who don't exist to each other.

it's not.

but the worst thing. for me. is that i'm raw to it all over again. and i hate it. i hate that i'm having a perfectly sunday and i put on brian eno to help me sort my washing and i'm transported back to that time blissed out on some other sunday morning a lifetime away. but it was all a lie. it wasn't real to him. even after he left. even as he transmitted the words we can't be friends for now. no. if you do that. we can't be friends ever. that's your choice.

and i severed that part of myself and set about healing the void. on my own terms.

right up until the nadir, i had narrative in my life. even if i didn't like the way things were or ended up or turned out, things made sense. a so b so c. well, shit. that stopped. somewhere along the line. i had a thought this morning, earlier, that perhaps i feel less narrative in my life because i don't write about it anymore. not here, not on paper. i used to do both.

it got to a point where i stopped. i couldn't put pen to paper because nothing made sense. i had no way of processing what i was feeling. it was too hard. so i made things. endlessly. i make things. endlessly. one craft project blends into another.

they start to feel good again.

VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

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