décembre 01, 2002

birthday tears

It was my birthday and she didnít even acknowledge it. She didnít call me. She didnít email me. Nothing.

There is no way to quantify grief. Heartbreak is too uncomfortable, too nebulous too wrap up into a neat little bundle. There is no time-frame, no proven way in which to measure the passing of pain. No way to measure except in tears and the loneliness of the heart. How nice it would be if the infamous seven stages were cut up into neat little segments like that of a nice apple pie. Two weeks, denial is over, move onto anger. But denial moves into anger and then back again. Utter despair gives way to bargaining and then slides back into misery. Tears measure the passing of dreams, but only erratically.

Some days I almost forget. The rending pain recedes, settling into the dull shadow of an ache and I am able to laugh and think about the future as something other than fearful or dismal. The depression lifts and energy returns. I can think of her, even see her picture without falling to pieces.

And then, descending like fog, reality blinds me and the heartache returns. I lean over the sink to brush my teeth and realize that this time last year, the one good thing about my birthday was that I was planning a future with her. A year ago. And now we are barely talking. And she didnít even wish me Happy Birthday. And the tears I thought I had cried out draw from the pain inside and I weep into the white porcelain void.

I want it to stop. I want to feel about her like I used to feel about her. I want to forget I gave my heart to her. I want her to be my best friend again. I want her to be my lover again. I want the pain to end. But I canít have what I want. I canít make anything happen, least of all for the pain to go before itís time.

Grief will travel its own road, not the road I try to make for it. Much like her. I can wish and rail and push and drive but in the end I am powerless. Much like a rowboat against the incoming tide, I am pushing and pushing, only to end up in the same place.

Iím going to stop dipping the oars. Itís time to let it all go.

But I still wish she had called me to say Happy Birthday.

Posted by rachie at 04:07 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack