Let's hope for the best

Chapter 42: Up

I don't know exactly when it was: months, after our breakup.

I had slowly started to eat again, to sleep again.

The bleeding had finally stopped.

Physically, I was starting to feel a bit better.

And then, I don't know how it happened.

I was sitting in my living room some day, staring at the ashes of what used to be my life.

And then, I decided I had to start picking up the pieces.

...

I painted the walls- the whole house, apart from the nursery/study.

I couldn't go there: there was a ghost I feared too much in there.

The ghost of the future that could have been.

The ghost of a baby boy with Theo's eyes, calling me "mom";

and snuggling up against Theo on our sofa, on a snowy Christmas day, watching our little boy playing with his new toys.

And so I shut it away, I closed it off, away from my sight.

So that I would not think of it.

But I painted the rest of the house; and I moved the furniture, and as soon as was able to, I also bought some new home decorations.

...

I started working temporary jobs here and there, but I needed a car to get there.

And I couldn't afford it.

I asked my dad to lend me some money.

He did.

I felt my failure was, eventually, complete. I was asking my father's money again.

He said, "I told you".

And he did: he had told me so many times, to share the expenses with Theo evenly. To save something. In my own account, as well.

But I wouldn't listen.

Theo was my family, I didn't see the point.

....

And then, I eventually brought myself to go through all of my memories, that were still out in the house: pictures. Letters. Drawings. Some few things that Theo had left behind.

I cried my heart out, taking off our pictures from the walls: I left one or two, in places where I wouldn't be seeing them too often. Just because I didn't want to completely erase my life.

But I couldn't be surrounded with them, constantly.

And I had tons and tons of papers, letters, drawings, comics. And old cinema tickets, and museums tickets, and holidays souvenirs.

I always used to keep everything- damn me!

Now, I'm much more ruthless.

Marie Kondo, hold my beer: I keep only the few things that I deem absolutely necessary, now.

Going through that amount of sentimental stuff, has been too painful; I don't ever want to go through something like that, ever again.

...

To this day, I still sometimes come across a little comic strip, a drawing on the corner of a book page, with me and Theo.

Or a little note, that had sneaked to the bottom of a drawer.

A few weeks ago, I was rummaging through my paper bags, because I had sold some old clothes online, and I needed to make the packages.

I found one with "merry Christmas, my love <3" still written on it.

It feels like the house is conspiring against me, sometimes.

But yeah, it is mostly under control now.

...

And I started painting: I did that, sometimes. When I was younger.

Then I gave up, because I had no time. There was work, and Theo, and my siblings, and his siblings, and the house to take care of.

But when I was single again, I found out that I had much, much more free time than I used to.

So, I bought a few big canvases, and got to work.

When I finally hanged them on the walls, I felt that at least some of the pain, had finally gone away.

I started to be able to spend at least some time inside of my house, without going crazy.

...

And after over 6 months, I tackled our bedroom.

I hadn't slept there ever since.

Making the bed was painful; I had to buy new bedsheets, to bring myself to eventually sleep in our bed again- my bed.

It was my bed, now.

And cleaning up the closet, was a torture.

I could still see Theo's shirts, that I had lovingly washed and ironed, hanging in the closet, and he would be so proud of them.

Clothing held a particular meaning for him, so, the closet was a soft spot for me.

But I told myself, I had to. I had to do it.

So, I cleaned it up.

Spread my own stuff. I occupied his side of the closet as well. What used to be his drawers. His nightstand.

And yeah, my stuff looked great, in the end. With so much space, just for myself.

...

One day, I was talking to my dad on the phone about something, I don't know. Maybe the car.

I was tackling the closet when he had called me, and I couldn't stop myself.

In the middle of the phone call, I started crying.

I never cried with him. He was nothing to me, a stranger.

But now I cried, I couldn't help it.

I explained what I was doing.

And my father then sobbed, also.

He told me that after mom had died, one of the most painful memories he had, was of when he had to clear up her side of the closet.

He had never spoken about mom before.

Or about how he felt.

It was the first time.

I guess, he had finally come to tackle his own ghosts, as well.