Six months ago (April 18, 3:15 [3:13] PM) the snow was deep on the ground. We’d eaten tacos that I made for us. We’d lain in bed much of the morning, kissing, crying. I helped him pack. We loaded stuff in his friends’ cars. Only one of them would even look at me. He walked out of our home. Out of my arms. He chose everything but me.
Six months later, I’ve just returned from an extremely late night walk. There was snow a week ago, but tonight, I took the dogs out just in my t-shirt. It was quiet—eerily quite. Maybe peacefully quite. It will snow again soon, reminding me of that other 18th. I’ve submitted a novel to a publisher. I’m twenty pounds lighter. I have another tattoo. I’ve cried and hurt more than I thought I could survive. I’ve met people I never would have known—some have already come and gone, other may stay for awhile. I have a new nephew. I turned thirty-one. I totaled my car. I got a new one. I shut myself off from my friends. Made new ones. Started opening up to my friends again. I wrote a second novel. Went through therapy again. Learned how to make an artichoke. Forgot how to make homemade lasagna noodles and gnocchi (not that they should be made alone). I traveled to Seattle. I prayed a lot. I cursed a lot. I’ve learned to laugh again. I can’t forget to cry. I depended on my family. I depended on my dogs. I trusted my friends would still be here whenever I come back to them—whenever I come back to myself. I got a Mohawk. I gained a fuck-it attitude that I kinda like and serves me well a lot of the time. I started my massage business again. I got a raise at work, happens every year with teachers. I fell in love with working again. I started making coffee. I lost many of my hopes and dreams. I held on to a few. I’ve looked long, very long, into the mirror and most of the time, am less sure of who stares back at me. I’ve gotten stronger. I’ve gotten more cracks. I have nightmares. I dream of him. I slept in our bed the very first night. I sleep in it still. I faced the parts of me that are pathetic and needy. I’ve leaned on the parts of me that are strong and tough. I prayed for him. I’ve been furious with him. I’ve missed him every moment. I ache for him still.
Six months from now I’ll know if I am to be published or not. I will be a year without him. I will have made it through Christmas alone. The tree will go up and come down. New Years will have passed, solitary, bringing whatever omen it brings. I will still sleep in our bed. The mohawk will probably be gone. If published, the sleeve will be in the design stage. If not, my forearm will remain bare. I will have blogged a lot more and written more on the novels. I will have cried some more. Prayed some more. Cursed some more. Missed him some more. I will have continued to rely on my family, puppies, and friends. I will continue to work out. I will have continued to look in the mirror. Maybe I’ll know who looks back, maybe. I will have been weak and pathetic. I will have been strong. I will have faced pain I didn’t see coming. I will have laughed at joy unexpected. I will have still known love—lost, but still. Six months from now, I will look back and see that I have continued to live, despite and because of all the tears, all the unanswered prayers (and some of the answered ones). A lot happens in six months. A lot stays the same.