We were supposed to have a holiday party together. Though it’s been off my calendar for weeks, I haven’t forgotten. There’s a snowstorm coming in.  We’d talked about how much fun we’d have sequestered at his place during the first snowstorm, so I am sick with grief and dread and missing him.  All day long I can’t stop thinking about it and crying.  When I’m done teaching I’m supposed to sit with a friend and work for a few hours.  I feel how little I have left and a headache coming on again.  I don’t work, I sit and cry to her about how pathetic and lost I feel, how I still keep checking my goddamned phone like an idiot.

Eventually I go home, and then things get really bad.  I begin to cry the moment I walk in the door and I don’t stop.  I sob and wail and fling snotty tissues all over the floor.  My eyes swell, I struggle to breathe, and I panic.  A friend said maybe I could stop by tonight but I’m afraid to ask, afraid this will be too much for her, afraid I’ll be pushed away.

Eventually I curl into a ball on the couch and run out of tears.  I lie there and whimper until I feel dull and lifeless, unfocused, vacant.  I drift off with my body wrapped around the pillows.  She eventually texts to check in and the phone rouses me from my dissociative stupor.  She comes to me and has tea and calms me down.

On Saturday I have very little planned.  I turn off my alarms again.  I guess I’ll run whenever, I really don’t care.  Each time I begin to stir I register his absence or how I dreamed of making love to him in the early sunlight.  As long as I can keep going back to sleep I won’t feel my fear that life just isn’t going to get better than this for me.  I stay in bed for twelve hours.

When I run, I struggle to pick my feet up.  I’m disgusted by my pace.  I think about pulling out of the Boston Marathon because what the hell is the point?  I keep running, lethargic and depressed and fucking slow–and I kind of loathe myself.  I feel pathetic and worthless.

I remember a family member on the phone helplessly trying to talk to me about the breakup while I continued to cry, “Well, maybe you weren’t ready for a relationship.  Maybe you have to be more emotionally stable first.”  Naturally I just cried harder; there’s my own worst fear being externally validated.  I may not get any more emotionally stable than this and Kevin may have gotten as close to me as anyone will ever be willing to be.  Maybe I really am too broken to be loved.  Maybe I am worthless.

I want to quit; I’m disappointing myself and I don’t know what I’m accomplishing.  I don’t fight it off so much as remind myself that if I’m not running it’ll be a long, boring walk home instead. I run home in the name of expediency.  I don’t bother with pull-ups because I don’t care.  I lean against the wall in the shower and cry and cry, feeling like nothing is ever going to be okay again.

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