February...

I knew something was wrong when I found myself on the train home from work wanting to scream at a homeless guy who was asking an uninterested audience for money for the billionth time. For a week now I could feel something bubbling under my skin but I couldn't quite figure it out. Whatever it was it was trying to escape me by unleashing a verbal attack on an unsuspecting victim.

It isn't until the next day, while writing in a coffee shop before work that I realize what I've been suppressing. It's February. I met Rob on the 10th, my parent's wedding anniversary. It was my dad's sister that set them up and also Rob and me. I loved telling that story when people asked how I met him. Never did I ever imagine that a year after I met him, I'd be sitting alone in a coffee shop 800 miles from home, trying to rebuild my life without him.

I don't want to feel hurt so that gets transformed into anger and it sits there until it builds and builds into something most unattractive and before I know it I want to scream at the slightest irritation.

It doesn't help that I haven't heard from Pete either. I've been through all this before though. People floating in and out of my life. Not that it hurts any less when it happens but this time it's combined with my insatiable wanting for Rob, making it harder to handle. I didn't want a new person, I wanted the one I had. I didn't want to give everything I had left to Pete at such an odd time in my life but still found myself doing it anyway, thinking I'd deal with it later.

I'm dealing with it alright...

February 10th came and went. I work at Lincoln Park, enjoyed my day, and ultimately felt nothing. I think my brain was tired from all it's raging it did the previous week.

On the 14th, after an insane day at Wicker Park I joined my friend Christine and a bunch of her friends at her (beautiful!) apartment for a pot luck dinner, wine, and good story telling. I had been looking forward to it all week.

The next day I was back at Christine's eating leftovers for lunch. While sitting on her couch the subject of Rob came up. I haven't shared much about him with many people since moving. Sometimes the floodgates open with certain people and random things pour out of me. This is one of those times...

She asked how his accident happened. I explained it as best I could although I'll probably never fully understand it. I include the most random details, like what the weather was life that day, what time I sent him the text message asking when could I expect him in Atlanta, and what time it was when my dad called.

Normally I stop there. For whatever reason, I continue, talking about the following day, driving with my cousin Shevis, and Rob's sisters, Kate and Laura to South Carolina to move him out. I tell her about walking in the door, about the dishes in the sink, his toothbrush on the counter, along with his shaving cream,and hair products. I told her about folding his clothes with Laura, about meeting his friends, about how packed the church was at his funeral, how months later while at church I asked the man who dealt with Rob's body what he looked like when we was brought in and how afterwards I sat motionless on my couch for an eternity staring at the wall until I picked up the phone and called a friend to explain what I had been told.

I don't really look Christine in the eye when I tell her all this. She's so easy to be with. She listens, holds my hand when I cry and maybe that's why it's so easy to open up to her. Lots of people have listened though but I find myself only sharing the most intimate details of my memories with a tiny handful of people. I don't know how my mind selects them, how they just seem to feel "safe" and others don't but I try not to question it or think too much about it.

I finally stop talking. I feel exhausted. Christine has to get some studying in. I leave and take my time walking to the bus, despite the chilly air. Fat snowflakes drift gently down from the sky and I wonder if more is to come and if it'll stick.

Once I'm home, the snow has stopped. I make dinner and feel a bit guilty for unloading like that on Christine. It's as if I've asked her to carry my rather heavy load because I can't seem to take another step. I'm afraid of stopping to rest because everything I'm scared of, all the hurt and uncomfortable feelings will paralyze me and I'll never be able to move again.

None of this is actually true and I know it. I've been putting one foot in front of the other for a while now. Some steps are just harder to take.

I put a movie in and half way through it for no reason I find myself crying. A song I love is playing. The chorus goes, "Come pick me up, take me out, fuck me up..." Maybe that's what I want and I'm not finding it. I want someone to take care of my crazy ass for a moment because it's so hard right now, or at least it feels hard and I need a break but don't know how to actually take a break so...I want someone to do it for me.

Impossible. Tomorrow will come, no matter what and I'll have to get up and face it whether I like it or not. By myself.

Security Blanket...

"Melissa, you hold on so tightly and you don't let go." the therapist said to my fifteen year old self, curling her fingers into tight fists. I remember looking back at her thinking she just opened a door that I didn't know existed and I'm walking through it, unsure of where to go. I do hang on too tightly. To everything, and no, I don't know how to let go.

Fast forward twelve years later and I'm still bumbling around trying to find the answer. I never asked her for it. I remember just nodding, feeling paralyzed.

I'm currently sitting on board a non-stop flight to Atlanta that left Chicago an hour ago. I stare out the window at the clouds beneath me and suddenly I'm filled with an intense desire to jump out and run all the way back to Chicago. What the hell am I doing on this plane? Chasing after something that doesn't exist anymore? Yup, that's it and I'm angry with myself for doing it.

The plane lands and I contemplate staying at Hartsfield and boarding the next flight out to Chicago. I talk myself out of it and take MARTA into the city. All I wanted was to wrap myself up in the sparkly security blanket I left behind when I moved.

Weeks before leaving for Chicago I stumbled upon the blanket and carried it everywhere with me. It eased my anxiety of moving, listened to all my confessions, kept me warm while I slept, and like a narcotic, it coated my brain with a wonderful illusion that everything was flawless and free of any sort of hurt or anger. It was this sort of safe place I found myself turning to every chance I got.

When it came time to move I had no room left for the blanket. I carefully placed it in a safe place, promising to be back as soon as I could and then I left.

I missed it terribly and upon returning I hoped to find it in the same condition as to when I left. Sure enough, it was and my worry dissipated leaving me feeling elated and calm once I left again. I went back again and again and everything was still the same until this time.

This time is different. Something must have happened along the way because when I went back for the blanket, it was merely a collection of string. There was nothing warm about it. I pick up the strings and lace them around my fingers, squeezing them, trying to get that warmth back but there's nothing. "No, no, no." I tell it. "Not yet. Don't go away. I'm not ready." Very slowly the strands begin to disintegrate in my hands.

Anger boils underneath the surface of my skin and I snatch a pair of scissors and begin to cut furiously away at the strings, slicing my skin in the process. I keep cutting until there is one left. I can't bring myself to sever this one despite the fact that it's threatening to slip away. I keep it around my fingers, fall asleep, carry it with me on the plane back to Chicago, waiting to wake up one day without it. In the meantime, I'm still struggling to find the answer to the question "how do I learn to let go?"

Catch up...

It's been an eternity since I've written because my computer has decided to go on an die. Very poor timing on it's part I must say. I've since discovered the public library but of course, it's busy and there's a time limit on the use of the computers. It's not always conducive to my meandering daydreaming that usually happens when I write.
That being said, I'm trying to figure out how to start. How do I sum up the past several weeks? It's part of the reason I've been dragging my feet on writing. So much has happened and I'm bursting at the seams to share it with you but figuring how to begin has been debilitating.
Moving here to Chicago is the best thing I could have done for myself. I'm thrilled beyond explanation to finally be living the life I've wanted for so long. I often wonder why it took an eternity to actually do it. I feel completely free here to be myself 100%, in my furry, heeled, impractical (but SO cute!) snow boots and a tank top underneath my heavy winter coat as the wind whips itself around me, threatening to take the skin off my face as I walk to work.
I couldn't ask for a better job. Assisting isn't necessarily my most favorite part of the hair industry but simply a stepping stone to the next phase in my career. I've been bouncing from Evanston to Wicker Park to Lincoln Park each week for about two months now. I am always surounded by respectful, talented, kind and helpful people. Not only have my co-workers been incredible, so have the clients.
After being a stylist for so long, it's tough going back to the bottom of the totem pole again. My hands bleed from getting dried out after being in so much water, I'm in a constant state of freaking out over obtaining models for class on Mondays when I don't know many people here, and keeping the likes and dislikes of the stylists and colorists of each location straight takes getting used to but I would not trade it for the world. I'm happy to do it because very slowly, I'm erasing my past experience as an assistant and all it's negativity and replacing it with something sparkly and uplifting.
Of course I wouldn't know what good was unless there were some unsavory moments thrown in the mix. I've gotten on the wrong bus one too many times. I've stood on a street corner looking both ways under a blast of wet, cold snow wondering where the hell I am, and I've been caught running to the train like an Olympian trying to win a gold medal only to watch the damn thing leave without me.
While work distracts me in the best way possible leaving no room for anything but the 17 things I have to do right that minute, grief still manages to find a way into my head. It reminds me that it's still here even though I moved and there is no escape. If anything it's tightened it's grip now that I'm free from my usual routine I had established in Atlanta. Everything is completely different now in Chicago. I don't just get in my car and go somewhere anymore. I map my day out according to where I'm going to be working that day and whatever gets done, gets done. Otherwise it'll have to wait.
Trains are still very novel to me. I enjoy the fact that I don't experience my psychotic road rage anymore and can sit and read or stare out the window until it's time to get off.
Walking everywhere has also been nice. Sometimes, it's a pain in the ass but there is something wonderful about replying on my own two feet to get me where I need to go.
The holidays were certainly different this year. I spent Thanksgiving in the suburbs of Chicago with one of my clients from Atlanta. On Christmas Eve, dad left me a voice mail that said all the flights to Atlanta the next day looked so bad it wouldn't be worth the effort to try and get home. I had just had an emotionally hellish week and his message was icing on that cake. I was reduced to tears as I trekked home from work in the frozen snow.
Kaci, one of my roommates was on vacation in Texas and Stacey, my other roommate had just missed her train to Michigan and was home when I walked through the door. Her sisters drove down to see her on Christmas morning and we hung out all day, went to dinner and to the movies, then to the bar that Stacey works at and had some drinks with her friends. It was the first Christmas Stacey and I had without our families. I was grateful for the company.
The week before and the week after Christmas, despite all the fun that was had were two of the darkest emotional weeks I've had since Rob died. I did everything I could think of to snap out of it. I made some sparklies, tried to write, started another creative outlet, talked on the phone, ate too much, drank too much, went out and danced, stayed up all night, slept all day, allowed myself time to cry when needed, aimlessly wandered the streets of downtown and tried desperately to get a hold of myself.
By New Years I was barely keeping it together. Kaci invited some friends over and shortly after exclaiming "Happy New Year!" I was asleep. The next morning we had more people over, made brunch and watched the first season of Friday Night Lights. Slowly people left until it was just me and Kaci on the couch, glued to the television. I was thinking about how happy I was for this moment of calm, fabulousness but at the same time, was on the verge of tears. I glanced over at herin between episodes and said, "How's you do it? How'd you move here?"
"It wasn't easy." she said and told me her story and all the ups and downs she experienced. "Why do you ask?"
"I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm truly happy here. I have everything I could ever want but underneath all the good stuff I feel I could shatter into a million peices all at once. How is it that I'm ecstatic and so upset all at once."
"Leaving is hard. You didn't move at the best time of year either. Winter is very isolating." she reminds me. "Plus, you've have a hard year."
"I know. Part of me wanted to be here in winter to get it over with It can only get better from here. I'm just trying to figure this out. I'm having feelings I've never had before and I don't know what to do with them.
"You're going to be fine. I don't worry about you at all. My door is always open if you need to cry, talk, or whatever."
"Thank you." I inhaled sharply to keep from crying right then. We went back to watching Friday Night Lights.
I believe her. It all will be ok, it's just in the meantime, I'm sorting through things and trying to figure out what to do and where to go next.