24

As I approached the 24 hour mark since the end of a beautiful thing, I felt the anti-depressants worked to keep me afloat and the company of friends. My pain was relieved, and despite seeing shadows of him everywhere I go, I felt like it didn't matter much.

The first 24 hours of losing someone (whether leaving a relationship or death, as long as you're grieving), is always the hardest, the most difficult, the most painful, the most crushing moments. Moments where your eyes lose their ability to see, suffocated by the tears that pricked the back of your eyeballs. Moments were your lungs tie themselves into a pretzel, constricted like a python had its scaly body around your chest, threatening to crush your ribs and puncture your lungs. Moments where you want to curl up in my bed all day and mope and cry and drink and do dangerous impulsive things, moments where you go on mad shopping sprees.

Right now I enter phase 2: diving myself into work. Work work work will dictate my life. I've devoted myself to a new job, and into the arms of homework. Comforting and distracting as they are from the thoughts of him that haunts me, it makes time pass faster and the nights shorter because you collapse into bed, so exhausted by the day you never have a second to think of the good times and to indulge in this willful child of a depression.

I'm doing good.