Reach.

It’s been almost 2 weeks since the death of my ex husband.  I am doing somewhat ok.  As can be expected . . . but at the same time . . .I am so not ok.

 

I have been going about my life, trying to do things that I normally would do.  I am in another show.  I went to jam last week and worked on hoop drills that I learned at Snow Flow.  I am hanging out with people. . . trying to make sure I still eat and not act out in destructive ways. . . yet, even though I continue on, there is still a level of fucked up-ness that I am carrying.  That I think I will always carry.

 

One of the reasons I got heavily into hooping was because of Depression.  I have pretty much been clinical depressed most my life.  I will also note here, that I am a self mutilator (which I have mentioned over on my other blog) I’ve been pretty good about it these days, though over the course of the past few  months, I have had relapses here and there. 

 

Hooping was also one of the ways that helped me get through my divorce.  I carried a lot of guilt about leaving my ex.  He was heading towards a downward spiral, and despite my efforts (though now I feel they really weren’t much of an effort) I could not get him to help himself. 

 

That’s the thing when it comes to any kind of depression or addiction . . . you have to want it yourself.  You can’t have other people do it for you.  And while I have been at the bottom of a despair pit (as I like to call them) many a times, just wanting a hand to reach in and pull me out, I also realized that when the hand is reaching down, you gotta reach up as well.

 

I think he was just too proud to ask for me to reach down.  And sometimes I felt like I myself was going to fall in from reaching down so much.

 

I wish he wasn’t gone.  Even though we didn’t work out as being a married couple, I still was glad to just know him.  To still be able to talk to him and see each other when we did.  I wish he could have seen the brightness he was.  The way he shone if he just let himself.  I wish he didn’t just see himself as the sum of all the fuck ups and mistakes that humans inevitably make.  That he meant so much to so many.  That he was loved. 

 

I loved him. 

 

And yet, I also blame myself.  Because that is what I do.  I didn’t try hard enough.  I didn’t love him enough.  I  should have done this.  I shouldn’t have done that.  I wish I just would have been better to him.  That maybe if I hadn’t been so selfish. . .

 

I carry these thoughts with me.  No matter what I do.  While I am at rehearsal or trying to learn lines. . . they are there.  While I am talking with friends. . . they are there.  While I am trying to force food down into me. . . they are there.  While I pick up my hoop and try to find my space. . . they are there. 

 

They will always be there.  Because he will be forever gone. 

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