Curveballs

I opened my eyes, saw the morning glow across the white ceiling, and felt knots tightening in my stomach. I remembered crying the night before, and I wondered why I didn't feel better, that morning. I always felt better the morning after I cried, or at least like weight had evaporated off of my body, but this time, everything was still heavy. I had to force myself out of bed even though felt like I had to push a car off of me, first. The good day I had planned couldn't continue from under my covers, though I wished it could have.

While showering and getting myself ready to go to my niece's kindergarten graduation, I was only thinking about the guy who was coming over to my house that night for dinner. I was going to make garlic pasta and sautéed brussel sprouts for this bald, ginger-bearded man who made me feel invisible, and I couldn't possibly be more excited.

I had convinced myself for so long that I wasn't invisible with him, a debate I started with myself after sinking into the background the first time we met. His expression was cold the whole time we were at that bar, even when talking about his own hopes and dreams of opening his own psychiatry practice. I thought I found visibility in being warm and encouraging, telling him that it'll happen some day because he had the drive to accomplish it, but the warmth must have just dissipated around him. I told him that I wanted to make a living off of my writing, and maybe I didn't say it in a convincing enough voice while I fiddled with my drink, because there were still no cracks in the ice. I didn't get the sense that he cared, and I think he only ever told me once that he thought I was a good writer. Maybe he thought it was the only time he needed to say it. Maybe he thought it was the only thing he ever needed to say, about it.

It was always ice among quiet flames. I only saw him melt from heat that wasn't my own.

While I was thrilled about him coming over, I also mildly nauseous for most of the day. We went from seeing each other two times a week, holding hands at our local Pride festival, going on a trip to Hollywood together, and staying overnight at his condo more often than not. This eventually transitioned into going days without hearing from him. The anticipation of when I'd see him next quickly melted and sizzled into anxiety, and I was desperate to find out if I was doing something wrong. I must have been doing something wrong.

So I invited him to have dinner at my place. I would cook all the food, provide all of the pinot noir (his favorite), and we would sit on the couch, drinking our wine while closing the distance between us. The perfect day, albeit nerve-wracking, was going to unfold in front of me. I was sure of it.

And I would remain sure of it, even after an unexpected interaction with my older brother's aunt (from his dad's side) after my niece's kindergarten graduation. We were leaning against a wall, waist-deep in a sea of children, waiting for my brother and my sister-in-law to come back after grabbing my niece's graduation photos. She asked me how I was doing, and it wasn't the gentle "how are you" that keeps a conversation going. It felt heavy, and I knew why it did.

My mother had passed away about six months prior to the graduation due to the progression of her stage 4 breast cancer. I was functional, but I often had to remind myself that she wasn't there, anymore. I was still living in her house, using her appliances, sleeping on a bed that she bought for me, sleeping in a room I had known for twenty-two years. I was pretending all of it was normal, which was exhausting. I wasn't fine, but I told people I was. I was always under the impression that I had to stop letting it get to me. Admitting that it still hurt meant that I hadn't moved on, and not moving on felt like being stuck. Still living in my mom's house, being single for 8 years prior to simply "seeing someone," and being so early in my career endeavors, I wanted to convince myself that I was anything but stuck.