At the lack of speed of things

There’s a line of a Matchbox Twenty song that goes like this: she gets sad when there’s nothing going on / she says it makes her feel damn worthless.

I haven’t consciously held off on writing but also, I thought I just naturally would again when things (read: my life) started to take some sort of discernible shape.

I’ve not written (much) about my divorce, though I suppose I’ve written around it. Perhaps out of guilt or some sort of shame, or a misunderstanding of what it means to respect those we once loved – as if naming, or identifying the location and nature of my hurt would be to deny my part in causing it.

It’s been a rough year, I said in 2016. These past 18 months have been tough, I said in April. The two-crap-years-in-a-row mark is coming up and I find I am tired, and angry and frustrated at the lack of speed of things.

How is it possible, I ask, voice shaky with tears, that they’ve all moved so far, so fast, when I’ve barely mastered standing still?

How can it be that the ex-husband has a whole new family (already)? How can the ex-best friend slide straight back into a bright and full social life + his next relationship? How is it that the lives you once occupied such a consequential part of can just close the gap that was you with no apparent scarring? How can the one who couldn’t stop thinking about you, now not stop to respond to a text?

How is it that you’re here, still, again?

When do you start to re-gain things (not the same, but others) that you lost? Is the season of losing not finite? Or just not finished with you, yet?

When will the finding begin again?


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