One month later and I'm 30 pounds lighter leaner less.
One month later images of her on the walls my phone my mind still taunt me, and I let them.
One month later and I'm in therapy, twice weekly blubbering my grown ass through The Breakup.
One month later I'm still wishing hoping begging waiting for her to talk to me text me call me see me come back come here come home.
One month later and the pain is still gaping and aching and raw.
* * *
Two months later and I've somehow finally stopped crying every day.
Two months later and I've remembered how to eat to sleep to go to work to lift breathe act alive again.
Two months later and I'm learning to let go, to not give a shit, and so two months later I've taken down and packed away every image of her from my walls my phone my mind; unfollowed and blocked on social media members of her family, not wanting to share any bits of me, of my life, with them; not caring to consume any pieces of theirs.
* * *
Three months later and I begin seeing planning believing in a future free of her.
Three months later I'm smiling laughing joking actually kind of sometimes mostly living for real again.
Three months later I refuse her name; remove it from my phone's "favorite" list; stop speaking it aloud.
Three months later and my entire house – my family's entire life – is packed into bags and boxes and bins, ready for the cross-country move her sudden and unexplained departure forced on us.
Three months later the pain turns to anger, searing manic primal.
* * *
Four months later fuck this fuck her fuck leaving we're staying she doesn't get the last word she doesn't get any word any say any influence any control she doesn't get to decide.
Four months later and I unpack my family's life back into our house.
Four months later and I'm done wishing hoping begging waiting.
Four months later I pack into a box that lives in the center of the living room floor, it's top flaps open and unsealed, the rest of the bits of herself she left behind: the birthday and holiday and "just because" cards; the gifts I bought her; the clothes she left hanging in the closet; the books she forgot on the shelf; the pieces of mail that still come for her; all the random pieces of her I find around the house.
Four months later and I'm 20 pounds fuller stronger sturdier.
Four months later the pain turns to anger turns to hate, and it's fierce and it's real and it's severe.
* * *
Five months later and I continue to avoid the people and the places from when we were still an us because five months later I have a new group of friends in a new city that's full of new places experiences opportunities things memories that are all mine; that have nothing to do with her, or with us.
Five months later I close and seal and shove that box full of the bits of herself she left behind into the back of the closet; throw an old rug on top for good measure; angle a giant canvas in front of it for better measure. Out of sight out of mind.
Five months later and I've bought new bedsheets pillows blankets that have no scent stain sign of her.
Five months later I delete her name number texts photos existence out of my phone.
* * *
Six months later and I've thrown all of her away: the gifts clothes cards jewelry she bought me; the things I bought myself because they reminded me of her; the box in the back of the closet full of the bits of herself she left behind. Out of my house my heart my life.
Six months later and I'm beginning to pack my family's life back into bags and boxes and bins for a new move to a new house in a new city full of new friends places experiences opportunities things memories that are all mine; not hers, or ours.
Six months later the pain turns to anger turns to hate turns to hope to happy to harmony.
Six months later and I'm ready willing wanting needing, finally, to move on and to move forward: onward.