The Absence of You

It was a rainy day, you know, the ones that make you think of him. Where the cold isn’t a temperature, but a reminder of the absence of what was. Morning ritual: coffee - black, and with enough sugar to call it a dessert. I take my meds on time now, anti-depressants, as I reminisce on the days where I was lucky enough to forfeit my mental health and say to myself “I’ll take it later”. I’m sure I had nightmares, but like usual this morning I didn’t wake up with the clarity of what happened, which is probably a good thing. I carry the dazed and hungover feeling I’m left with instead, and like clockwork, I wonder how I manage to feel like this without an ounce of alcohol the night before.

I pick up my journal, the comforting violet moleskin that’s been with me since the end of summer of last year. It only has a few blank pages left, and I wonder what I’ll make of them in the coming days. I remember when I bought this journal. August 2020, the hottest month of the Summer, and the bloodiest war in my life. The break-up happened mid-July, but to be honest I felt like he had left long before, even though I was the one to make it official. At some things you just have to laugh, otherwise they’re too sad. I do this when I think of the day that I said I was so happy and so lucky that I’d never have to experience a break-up – because now I’m engaged, and well that’s where it ends, right? Silly. Naïve, actually. I really did think I managed to skip one of life’s most treacherous battlegrounds. Ridiculous as it is, I don’t look down upon myself for that, instead I entertain the thought of how blissful I must’ve been. “In love”, whatever the definition of that is.

I use this book for everything. Thoughts, ideas, to-do lists, drawings, random poems that come to mind, and as a log for my daily life. I was once told that no one is better to know you than your journal. Like a therapist, minus the $150/hr. In many ways this is true, and though no one would see it, the vastness of the blank pages felt daunting. Like an imposter, I felt my writing read as if I’m trying to impress someone, to make my thoughts look better than they are. For who? Myself? I still don’t know who I’m trying to look so good for.

I jot down a few things poking at my psyche and find relief in also writing a to-do list for the day. I won’t finish everything, I usually miss more than two but the structure is comforting. I enjoy my apartment. I live alone with my son. Well actually, he’s a black cat that just tends to have enough personality to feel like a human boy sometimes. I am lucky to have him, I don’t think I could come back to an empty apartment alone. Not after the joy that once awaited me at the end of every day, when I clocked out of work faster than my fingers could move, and sped through traffic with my eyes ping-ponging between the road and the rear-view, checking for red and blue lights as my patience ran thin.

Some days are wonderful. I feel confident, excited, liberated, and content. Contentedness is so underrated, to feel an acceptance for where you are in this moment and satisfied? That’s a good day to me because every high has its lows, and I’ve come to learn the power of stability. Those are just some days. It’s nice to know neither emotion will last – high or low. But when the low comes, I swear I can feel the floorboards of my soul drop another level.

They call it, “grief”, a previously foreign term to me. It came barging into my home like a burglary at midnight, then decided to stay and make itself comfortable. It sleeps for many days, but when awake there is no notification pinging my phone, no courtesy call, no knock at the door, just a handshake that turns into an unwelcome embrace by a stranger who’s trying too hard to know me. It could wash over me at any point in my day. I later realize this is a lesson in the study of surrender.

I have to get out of the house, at least once a day is what my mom tells me. I reluctantly put on some clothes that don’t feel like pajamas, something to make me feel put-together, or at least look like it. I am within walking distance from many places in the city, though only a few I enjoy. I gravitate towards the local bookstore, lately, this is where I find my comfort. I leave my wallet at home for a reason, though technology allows me to have sneaky ways of providing payment at the tap of a few buttons. I have my phone on me for music, so inevitably I know what’s going to happen. I’m not sure yet why books bring me peace. Is it a form of meditation? The chance to indulge in another life? the knowledge that awaits? One thing I know for sure is the aroma from a freshly printed book. It’s the scent of the unknown, though I sometimes feel like the author. It’s approaching 5 pm and outside the tall glass-stained windows of the bookstore, the orange glow of the sunset hints at the walk home. It is still winter you know; the days are very short…and the nights are very long. I desensitize myself from the cold on the brisk walk home.

I place the new book onto the two I bought last week, still untouched and collecting dust. I put my bag on the hook near the door, and ruffle through the left side searching for my glasses. In place of the wooden frame with glass windows that help me see, I stop at something that feels too familiar. In confusion I quickly pull the book from my bag, feeling frustrated that I allowed myself to buy yet another one to add to my quickly growing collection. But this one’s different – a little black book. I feel the guilt wash over me as I rack my memory to find something to tell me I didn’t accidentally steal it, but then again I never remembered picking it up. I mean I needed a new journal anyway, so this won’t go to waste, but something isn’t adding up.

Still confused, I turn the hardcover of the book and involuntarily let out a gasp. There was a yellowing piece of paper, folded like the person who put it there was in a hurry. I suddenly had 20/20 vision. Twenty-thousand dollars. The check read, amt: $20,000. this will change my life. Right here in this book were so many opportunities, a chance to change my path, a chance to help heal the world. There was nothing more on the paper than signs of its age, the amount, and a signature that wrote "Destiny".