On July 13, I sent this:
“Do you want to be a realist or do you want to be happy?”
The rest of July passed quickly and so did August. No job. Cynical thoughts, bad dreams… I continued to wallow in a depressional trench.
Then, in September, I got a job in Buffalo. I’d convinced myself a job and happiness would continue to elude me in San Francisco so during a visit to my home state, I decided to make a life move.
I was relieved by the prospect of a salary and the comfort of a savings account, rent I could afford, and health insurance. I didn’t know what to do about anything else… I just knew that I was making a good decision financially and for my career.
When I got back, I realized that I hadn’t thought about my relationship. Clearly. The time between the hiring and leaving (where I had to exist in the life that was supposed to be over) was torture. For both of us. During those weeks, I learned a lot about what happened and how much I missed or ignored. I realized that I didn’t give his feelings a chance in my heart just because he never said the words.
After spending hours and hours looking back on it all, I began to regret that I didn’t say “I love you” in the beginning when I looked at him some random evening during the short time we lived in Potrero. Oh, to be back at the start…
I packed my boxes full of regret.
Each cupboard I opened showed me that he loved me. My mismatched glasses, bowls, and plates were all blended in with his matching sets. The books he’d given me were on my shelves. Everything I picked up had a memory to go with it.
I couldn’t eat or function normally and tried my best to put on a brave face even though I was feeling, for the first time, what it felt like to get my heart ripped out. It was slow and painful.
Last Tuesday, the moving box was gone, my car was shipped on Thursday, and I’d become a visitor in our house. October 3rd slammed down on me like a ton of bricks. It was so painful, all the tears I thought I was done crying came back. Everything I’d done to prepare to go home felt like a mistake. This was my home.
Brunch. Packing. Haircut. Airport.
Sent this message: “Life fail. I wish I told him I loved him when I thought it. Why’d I wait this time?”
My last days in SF felt like my… last days. I treasured every meal, car ride, drink… Every moment and every touch. Every word. Every look back.
And I died when I left.
Rawr?
