My breath caught in my throat. My hands went to my mouth to quiet a sob. Even in my sadness, I didn’t want to wake my roommate, who was snoozing on the couch beside me.
A few tears fell. I stopped them. I took a few deep breaths.
I got my things together.
My roommate woke. I told her the news. She expressed her sympathy. I told her goodnight.
I went upstairs, closed the door to my room, turned on the radio, and cried into my pillow. I gave myself five minutes.
When I felt the time had come to calm down, I tried calling a friend; no answer. I texted them, telling them to call me when they were free.
I called another friend. They picked up. We talked; they distracted me, calmed me down. I thanked them. I hung up.
I pulled out my laptop and started writing. I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
I typed the things I couldn’t say, the things I didn’t say, the things I didn’t want to say or believe. I read back what I wrote. I cried again.
I wrote more. I let my mind go where I had kept my mind from wondering. I named, owned, and accepted my feelings. I awknowledged my part in my hurt.
I questioned what was to come next. I questioned who I was as a person, my intentions, my expectations. I questioned and answered and accepted some more.
It all helped, a bit.
I put away my laptop, curled up with my stuffed turtle, and went to sleep, my cries now ended.
And now I’m… better. I’m okay-ish. I’m still moving forward, because I have no choice in it. I have to do it, whether or not it’s the way I had hoped.
I am who I am, disappointments or not.
Categorised as: Emotional
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