Learning to Grow

It has been one month and two weeks since The Fiancée cut off contact. I can't lie and say I don't hurt. Last weekend was the first time I went to our home town since the last time I saw her. That was 2 months ago now. I cried driving past our landmarks; the favorite eateries, the place we bought our wedding gowns, the freeway sign that was my idol last school year driving home because it was the first to say her street name. Sleeping alone in my bed, filled again with stuffed animals instead of her warm presence, made a fresh wound where the scabs of the hurts from my college town were healing. Writing this even brings tears. Sometimes the pain brings me to my knees. Music remains nearly off limits, because an inordinate amount of pop songs seem to be far too focused on marriage. I'm not sure the girl I thought existed ever really did, but I love her, whoever she is now, unconditionally all the same. I can't decide if all the facts in that last sentence make it easier or harder, but it is what it is. Some days, I think I might even miss my cats more than I miss her, even if only in my head.

Yet, at the same moment, there have been points of growth. I can wear the clothes she gave me now. My bed, once her's, feels mine now and is no longer a shrine to our past. I no longer end up on the floor sobbing. Her food in my freezer makes me smile now. I ate a Cookies and Cream chocolate bar for the first time on Tuesday. Only two pictures remain out. I can call her my ex. I can feel how much healthier things are this way. I haven't flown into a rage or a tantrum since she's been gone. Even after my rape, my emotions feel predominantly controllable. I've gotten both a piercing and tattoo without her. She feels more like a very very happy but far away memory than a real life experience. Like with the last paragraph, I can't decide if that makes it better or worse.

That suitor I mentioned back on the fourth? I'll call him Mitten. I still can't say what I make of him. It feels like I've known him for a lot more lives than just this one. He's a boy the same way I am, and gets what it's like to use a chosen name and figure out the perils of restrooms. He was the first to use my chosen name. He understands when my voice goes away and signs remain. He knows what it's like to be trapped in a flashback so real you swear you're back in that forsaken room again. He's a better Christian than I hope to be. I don't want anything to come of it, not for years at the least, but it's wonderful to have a friend. I have another friend, a queer girl, who actually hugs me tight. My PTSD doesn't let most people touch me, not even Mitten, but goodness do her hugs make me feel safe (she's maybe 5'3", but does MMA and broke a girl's elbow with her thighs). I enjoy this friendship thing, as odd as it is.