90 Days

They said when I stopped counting the days I would know I was over it. By day thirty, I was still reaching out in the middle of the night. My hands disappointed by the emptiness they felt, fingertips void of the warmth… I still slept on that side of the bed. In the midst of my grief I clung tightly to sheets, and fought sleep by deeply inhaling the scent that remained on pillow cases. I was in pain. My heart vehemently ached as I waited for calls that would never come. The pain was almost unbearable, but the world forced me to bear it. Encouraging words came from every direction, but rarely were they loud enough to drown out the words I said to myself. In my head, words like “failure” danced wildly throughout my mind. Uncoordinated choreography waltzed over memories, stepping over some and totally destroying others. I was forced to take off the rose colored glasses. There was no glow. Thirty days wasn’t enough time.

By day forty-five, I could make it an entire twenty-four without spasms of realization immobilizing me. It took less effort to bear the beating of my heart, the purposeful pounding that kept me anchored to this world, constantly reminding me I was still here. I was still here and I had to be present. I had to do something with the words. The words never stopped coming… full forced, they questioned everything. Was it real? Had I existed in this realm? Surely you weren’t real because had you been this would not be reality. Real was never it. You were not real. You are not real now…

But I digress.

Sixty days brought a shift leaving me lighter than I had felt before.¬† I embraced new routines and thought less and less of the old ordinary. I worried less about those previous days, and started focusing more on my future. The present found meaning again, I was in the moment. This was my moment. Now was here regardless of how many times I begged for that time back. I mourned more for the time than I did the what once was. I no longer wanted the what once was. Sixty days opened my eyes, and I was able to see that it was never what I needed, never what I deserved. I had grown tired of hurting But still, I kept count…

I numbered the days, checked off my dreams steadily becoming reality, and found myself no longer reaching out in the middle of the night. If I did reach it was for my notepad and a pen. The words still came, I just wrote them down instead of allowing them to run rampant in my head. I continued to write, and those words were read. Many times over those words found meaning. Those words gave me meaning, gave life to the lifelessness I had endured. Ninety-days. It took ninety days for me to no longer refer to it as your side of the bed. It’s been ninety-days and that still may not be enough time.

It may take ninety more, or less. Today makes ninety-one and I’m no longer running from my process. Instead I am processing through it. I am acknowledging all the days, learning from them. No longer overlooking the warning signs that should have sent me running in the other direct on day one, I can now see what I looked over those days that followed. I needed this. I needed this time. I needed the days to add up for this all to make sense to me. I keep count so I can gauge my progress.

A lot can happen in ninety-days. That’s enough time for you to fall in love, enough time for the trajectory of life to completely change, enough time for me to give myself…

An Ode.

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