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.