Reborn

“Now imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light.”

It’s been six weeks since I began to burn. I spent four months trying to win back the girl, and it just didn’t work. The fact is I had already lost the battle and picked the wrong fucking time to start fighting it. The blood had already been spilled, the tears shed, the bodies buried and the memorial structure to What Had Transpired Here had begun construction, and that’s when I finally arrived on the field looking for a foe to vanquish. Still I fought bravely and mightily and probably would have won but for the fact that my enemy had already won, gone home, started writing memoirs. I knew things had been going sour between her and I, but I took it for granted that it would wait while I threw my time and energy and effort at solving my personal problems. I was wrong. Finally I realized that by fighting I was only hurting us both – her, perhaps, more than myself – and threw in the towel. I hate hate HATE to give up and accept and admit defeat, but the only other paths before me fed into further despair and damnation.

The anger and rage and frustration and despair built within me for over a week before I figured out how to channel it (other than write, which usually helps a lot but just wasn’t cutting it this time). I started a training program in the hopes that physical pain would trump the emotional misery. It worked pretty well at first as soreness and exhaustion kept me drained and distracted. I set goals for myself to push harder each and every day, and I surprised myself by meeting those goals each and every time. I cut my smoking down from three or four packs a week to only one (which is helping in the wallet, too, since a pack costs from $8 to $10 up here). I’m also experimenting more and more in the kitchen, concocting unique experiences I would only wish upon myself until I get it just right.

It turns out I’m not out of the woods. Two weeks ago I stopped being able to sleep through the night. I can’t fall asleep until around 1:00, I wake around 7:00, and something rouses me at least once in between. If it’s a noise, it doesn’t register. If it’s a dream, it doesn’t linger. I find myself awake with no explanation, just a sense of confusion as I attempt to discover if I’m missing something critical to the moment. Has someone broken in? No. Is something on fire? No. Why am I awake? I cannot tell. The good news is that I seem to fall back asleep in short order, and I’m able to get to work about 30 minutes early and beat the bulk of the morning rush. This week I started cutting my caffeine intake to near zero in the hopes of combating this.

But the heartache has returned. Every moment of every day I feel her presence in my mind. It’s as if she’s standing just barely out of sight; turn my head a little and there she’ll be, speak and she’ll respond. This happens at work, at home, on the street, on the train, in a bookstore, in a movie theater, and I ignore it the way I ignore a scratch on the lens of my glasses. I cannot change it, and to dwell upon it would drive me completely mad. I can only ignore the feeling and hope it will starve and die before it rots me.

So now I’ve made two more changes. I’ve started reading again, new and imaginative stories that inspire me to tell a fictional tale half so interesting. There’s such a joy to be had from reading, hours spent on the same story that take more of my mental acuity than any movie or TV show.

Also, I’ve doubled my workouts. I keep the same rotation of routines, but now I’ll run after each. Saturday, I did my punching routine followed by a run. Sunday I did my jump rope/pushup/sit-up routine followed by a run. Yesterday repeated Saturday. Today was the biggest challenge yet; a run followed by a run. Instead of turning around at the midpoint of my playlist, I kept going until it was over. I made it all the way to the soccer fields at Northwestern University. The ruler function on Google Earth rates this as being about 3.6 miles which I covered in 30 minutes. Then I sat, stretched, started the playlist over and ran back home. Seven miles of gravel, sand and pavement passed under my shoes, and this is just the first week of the new regime. I’m excited at what I’ll be able to do in six more weeks.

School starts in two months and two days. By then I’ll be living in a new home, hopefully one I’ll love enough and be able to afford to keep for the next three years as I continue my professional education. My job has been continued through the end of July, and even should it go no further, I know I’ll be able to live on what I’ve saved until the loans kick in. Slowly I can feel my grief being replaced by a most pleasant, warm combination of pride and hope.

I’m still tender, but my skin is thickening.