How do you start to make sense of your life when it seems like all sense has vanished? When everything that you thought was real and true and right no longer is so. When you thought that things could not possibly get worse; and then they did.
Last week, I was wallowing in a deep pool of self pity over a failed relationship and a floundering attempt at self reliance.
This week, I struggle to understand what the tears are about. I don't know what I am crying about any more. Which lost love. A love that I expected to last a lifetime, or one that did.
VBF came over to my apartment last Thursday. I called her after I'd heard the news, and she came over right away. She stayed with me through the afternoon while I tried to call various people in my family to get a clearer sense of what had happened. She got online to find flights to India and find out about getting emergency visas from the consulate in Edinburgh - just in case I'd want to go for the funeral. She made me lunch and made sure I ate at least part of it. She wanted to stay, but I told her I wanted to be alone.
But when she left, the walls felt like they were closing in. My flat mate texted me to say that he would be out late celebrating a colleague who had just successfully defended his thesis. The apartment was empty and cold. Literally cold. I tried to get the heating on, but I couldn't figure it out. I pulled the covers off my bed and sat in the living room, in the growing dark.
And then, I called Beans. I told him what had happened. He told me to come over right away. It wasn't until I got to his place and he opened up his arms to embrace me that I felt something snap inside of me and the tears that I had been holding back all afternoon came flowing.
I cried for what seemed like an eternity; pouring out my inner being. Telling him how I wanted to call my grandparents that morning, but had put it off because I needed to finish filling out a job application. It wasn't even a job that I was particularly interested in, and yet, I had wasted time and perhaps the one last chance to have a conversation with her.
He listened. Made me coffee. Brought out a fresh box of tissues. Made me more coffee. Threw away the coffee and brought me a glass of whisky instead. Listened some more as I poured out story after story about my Nana. Handed me tissues as the tears kept streaming down my cheeks as if a dam in me had exploded and the river of sorrow would never stop.
He drew me close and held me tight. Hugged me. Kissed me. And I kissed him back. Slowly at first, but then more deeply and passionately. And then, before I knew it we were naked and making love with a wild intensity. Which is when I began crying all over again, ashamed for what I was doing and for forgetting even for a mili second.
He held me close and I clung to him and the cycle began all over. We made love that night over and over again. I don't remember falling asleep, but when I woke up he was still holding me. Something he'd never done before.
But nothing really has changed. He was there for me at a bad time, and that was it. He has called a few times to check on me, to make sure I'm ok. He came by yesterday to try and fix my TV. It was all very cheerful and friendly. Which is after all a good thing. I cannot afford to loose even one friendly face in this city. It is already too bleak.
I wish I could feel badly about what happened that night. But I cannot. It just seemed so right at the time, and perhaps it was exactly what I had been craving the entire day. The reason to feel again and not that deep hurt that had been pressing down on me. Crushing me.
The hurt is still there. For both loves. And I suspect the crying will continue as well. Again, for both. Mourning, is unfortunately a long and tedious process.