Been doing fine since you've been gone
Heartsick. Heartsore. It’s not easy to remember what those words really mean when you are happy. It’s hard to remember the physically painful emotional state of grief – difficult to feel again what it is to be full of sorrow and painfully despondent, drained of hope and overwhelmed by loss of love. And suddenly these words are hanging like a burning tyre around my neck.
The end of love trails with it crushing disappointment, sudden surprise that so many doors will forever remain unopened. Dragging depression around like a suit of armour, I look out of the slit in the helm to see what? – so little that seems worth doing without her, or the prospect of discussing it with her afterwards.
Even the things that I had planned to do alone suddenly lose their savour and their point without her as the steady, dependable presence in my life. Nothing to live for, nothing to prove.
Yes, it will pass. All this will pass.
Until it does, it’s a monster gnawing inside my chest, eating out a gaping hole where my heart was, a physical nauseating pain.
Talking to a friend might ease the pain for a moment, and that moment won would be one moment closer to the day when the pain is no longer a constant reminder of what plans will never come to fruition, what happy memories are no longer part of a lost contentment with each other’s company. But I have no friends here to whom I can turn.
Loneliness. It’s a shameful state. Nobody wants you to admit to that tsunami of sadness that floods over you when you’re abandoned. Abandonment is for the worthless, loneliness is for losers; forsaken by your lover, you must put on a brave face, and not thrash about as you drown.
It will pass. All this will pass.
Then too you cannot spend an hour alone;
No company's more hateful than your own;
You dodge and give yourself the slip; you seek
In bed or in your cups from care to sneak:
In vain: the black dog follows you, and hangs
Close on your flying skirts with hungry fangs.
- Horace Satire VIII. Jamdudum ausculto.