A Month’s Time

Artwork by Susan Moore

I. Do you know what it was/is to be in love? It was that spot in the woods by the park that is always filled with sunlight. The spot with the fairy garden that I took them to before they asked me to date them, like really date them. It was warmth and soup broth, it was a bath in some ways but not others. It is straining my eyes because I’m trying to peer into a wolf’s den or peering out of a cave and not straining my eyes because it’s night already. It is feeling like I was slapped in the face, and then wishing I had actually been slapped in the face because physical wounds are tangible. It is sobbing so hard I shake in my parked car the day after, before work, alone.

II. I will definitely remember this breakup for a long time, simply because of how much it has taken a toll on my body. I ate significantly less, and my stomach was very sensitive. I used to be an insomniac but sleeping became all I wanted to do. I found it so hard to want to change clothes, wash my hair or clean my bedroom. I marinated in my own filth. I found comfort in my own filth. The weekend after, I vomited and curled up on the bathroom floor like a dog, nodding off and jolting awake for hours on the tile. When I finally got up, I wrote something and ate something and didn’t leave the house once.

III. A week after, my therapist asked me if I felt used or discarded. I said no, at least, not in the sense of someone getting bored of a new thing. I told him I did feel like the pet dog of a small child, who has assumed full responsibility for its well being, despite not knowing how. This isn’t to say that I was owned. No, it was never like that. But this is the only metaphor I can think of that makes it clear that the problem wasn’t what was done, but what wasn’t. What wasn’t thought of, what I assumed was taken care of. I really did want to give up my inhibitions, to defeat doubts and defend even the parts I didn’t understand. But I know now, when you are loyal like a spaniel, you can be kicked like one.

IV. I have to be honest, it is logistically harder to be by myself. Something I’ve heard about is how autistic people find it easier to become reliant on their partner. As an autistic person, this is something that I have certainly experienced. Having someone else around to feed me, to talk things over with, to soothe my anxieties is something that takes a weight off of me. It’s like having a buffer shielding me against myself, or rather, a person  that can alternate with me in being a buffer against myself. These days, it’s just me and myself together. We stare at each other, both of us uncomfortable. We are both annoyed at how hard things feel, but neither of us know who exactly we’re annoyed with.

V. I think I got lucky that I like all the things that I do. It’s impossible to keep up with my interests, past and present. I sometimes forget that the people around me can know me for years and not learn everything. Therefore, as I plunge ahead, I have reworked myself as a method of feeling better. I suddenly love Taylor Swift again, and begin a passion for the strange music of Radiohead. There is a new spot by my apartment where I sit and stare at the sky, entirely at peace with the lack of memories. I take endless personality quizzes, something I haven’t obsessed over since I was 14. I watch Pretty Little Liars with my roommate late into the night, delighting in the glorious melodrama of it all. It’s wonderful to be able to lick my wounds without having to worry that they’ll burst back open. It’s wonderful to go into everything afresh.

VI. Every day is exhausting, but an accomplishment nonetheless. Sometimes my emotions fluctuate hourly, affected endlessly by the intrusions of my mind. Sometimes I simply feel like nothing, and have to trudge through daily tasks like a clone of my worst self. Sometimes I am full of manic happiness, my lust for life casacading haphazardly through my arteries, propelling me forward. Sometimes I feel close to normal, or what I assume will be my normal after the grief has run dry. The grief will run dry, I know that much. Even now it is slowing to a trickle. I know my body parts renew, that my arms, that have held so many loved ones, slowly forget as the muscles and cells replace themselves. Until then, I go forward with a brave face.

Written by Susan Moore
Writer

Hi, I’m Susan. You may have seen my work before in Darling Magazine’s fashion section and Tonitruale’s music column.

When I’m not writing, I can be found watching documentaries with my roommates, listening to audiobooks and drinking drinks that turn my mouth blue.

Photo credit: @bluerosetori