Worth Remembering: Part Two

It wasn’t real.

Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.

Like my relationship with my ex-husband never actually happened. It was all just a dream.

I didn’t gift him Hershey kisses every September 18 to commemorate our first kiss.

He didn’t sneak into my dorm room window one night when I was sad to hold me and tell me everything would be okay.

We didn’t go to Olive Garden for lunch dates in between classes.

I didn’t save every letter he wrote me. I didn’t pocket every receipt from every date and create a photo album to surprise him with the night before our wedding.

He didn’t organize a flash mob with all our friends and family to propose to me.

We loved each other out loud.

But now it’s so quiet.

I wonder if any of that actually happened.

A glass cage.

I haven’t seen his eyes in a long time.

We don’t look in each other’s eyes when we are near each other. I don’t know why.

Sometimes I want to scream at him, “Look up. Remember me. Remember me,” like I’m stuck in a glass cage pounding on the walls, screaming to be seen. Screaming to be heard. But no one notices. No one can hear me. “Please, please, just remember the woman you married. Please.”

Most of the time, I imagine myself pounding my fists on the cage. I imagine trying to break the wall, screaming for somebody to let me out. That is what I picture. That is what I tell myself.

But if I’m being honest, that is not usually what I’m doing.

I’m not screaming. I’m not grabbing a vase and trying to shatter the glass around me.

I think it would be more accurate to say I’m sitting in the corner, backed against the wall of my cage, just silently crying.

Occasionally, I get up and walk to the window. I press both hands to the glass and stare out. Close enough that I can see my own breath fogging the surface.

I don’t think I’m screaming anymore.

I think I’m quiet now.

Maybe that is acceptance.

Maybe that is realizing this cage is my new home.

But can you ever really be at home in a cage you didn’t build?

For now, I just count the etchings on the walls. Little marks I make so I don’t forget how long I’ve been here. One year. Two years. And on the hardest days, I count in single numbers instead.

685.

686.

687.

As if naming the days makes the cage feel less permanent. As if maybe one day I will stop counting or escape.

This isn’t romantic pining. This is the end of a friendship. The end of a person knowing you. I just want to be known.

It’s not his job to see me anymore. But sometimes I just wish I could catch a glimpse of his eyes. Just to see if maybe I’m not still locked in the glass cage. (When did I give him the key?)

Worth Remembering

I thought we would stay friends.

Naive.

Stupid.

Immature.

Wrong.

I miss my friend.

Honest.

Weak?

Strong.

Heartbroken.

Worth remembering

I think I am.

I think we are.

Or maybe I need to stop remembering. Maybe there is strength in that too. Maybe I need to place him in a glass cage. Don’t remember the good things. You don’t even have to remember the bad. Just pretend it never happened. Bury that cage so deep it can never be found again.

But the truth is that is not me, and maybe it is not him either. That is not for me to know.

The face he made when he used to kiss me.

He used to make this face. It was my favorite face. He would stare at me and his eyebrows would furl together and he would smirk. It was a face that said, “This girl is crazy and surprising and I’m in love with her.” I can still see it. The first time he ever made that face his hair was short, no facial hair, and he was wearing a red and blue flannel. I remember thinking it was my favorite thing I had ever seen.

I don’t know. Despite everything. Despite what we may or may not be now. That face, it’s worth remembering.

And maybe that is why I turn back to the wall of my glass cage and carve another line into it.

Day 788.