Letting go

Sleep was intermittent last night. I was aware I was replaying bits of my last conversation with him in my head, almost reaching the surface of consciousness but still under the pull of sleep. I kept thinking of the line he texted: This is not a convo I would have. It was so definitive, the words hardened. He laid the final nail in the coffin and left with such resoluteness, leaving me staring at the ground, wondering how I had missed the signs, and what were these signs? I had calculated my steps and exercised caution but failed to consider him part of the equation, and now the numbers don't add up. Was it complacency that blinded me? I took his affection for granted. 

Yet his cruelty is doing me a kindness. I can now allow what it was, what could have been, to crumble in front of me. It will settle and lay in a mess. Familiar bits will stick out, jogging my memory to relive scenes of us. I will be tempted to bury the remnants, to hurry the grieving so I don't feel so broken. But won't it haunt me from the depths of the deep earth anyway, in the darkest hours of the night? I might as well sit with it. Let it wash over me. 

Day one. "The Wisp Sings" plays on a loop. I feel a sore ache in my ankle after tripping down the stairs from the MRT this morning. Immediately I thought of telling him what happened, what a klutz I was, and we could laugh about it together. That would have happened in a different time and space. Today, I bear the ache alone.

Day one, part II. It turns out I had sprained my ankle. I was listening to a podcast on love affirmations to drown out the voice in my head droning the same tired tunes, an unwilling audience I was. Where had my mind travelled to when I was walking down the stairs? One misstep was all it took. I welcome the irony of it. 

I sit at the doctor's and wait for my queue number to be called. The pain is dull and heavy as if it has sunk from my chest to my feet. The more I ruminate, the more questions I have with no answers. Did I reveal the ugly parts of myself that should have been hidden away? Was I too trusting, too vulnerable, too self-assured, a book that gave away the plot too soon before the reader could be drawn in?

I sense the possibility of cracks forming in my foundation of self if I'm careless with myself. How did he end up yielding such power over me? Did I give it to him by putting him on a pedestal? Or was it me who fell from the pedestal? Lying there in my hurt, having fallen with little grace, the instinct to protect and withdraw into myself is overwhelming. 

I am hobbling now, but soon I will be able to stride and run. I must be patient and kind to myself. Only then I can heal.