this is it: one year, or rather, 52 weeks

How could I possibly forget to acknowledge, yesterday, the ending of week 51? Of all the time I have been writing…Out of all the Mondays coming into Tuesdays that I have had to painfully endure…I somehow forgot that yesterday was Monday, even though I knew it was Monday. I even typed out a lovely post while seemingly being unaware. I had a pretty good day yesterday.

One year. It’s here. There wasn’t shit I could do to stop it except for suicide, which I had considered many times. Instead, I am at a state of not caring whether I die early, or not — hoping that I get to live out this young life only, and not be burdened by age. Don’t get me wrong, I still love the view over the Skyway; but there are days where I am caught in thought and the mental image of that ledge is like that apple to Eve.

When I’m stressed out, I think of Love. When I’m not stressed out, I think of Love. I carry Him around like He owns half of my body. He is enmeshed in my soul. And I’m okay with that. I believe We’ve met before. I believe We’ll meet again. I also don’t think I believe either of the past two sentences that I just wrote.

One year flew by, not because He is gone, but because time has sped by ever since I’ve been in my 30s. I have felt every day that He has not been here though. It has been a knife through my heart. The first 6 weeks were agonizing. It took me two months to go to work again. At the sixth month, I felt that I was finally coming into myself again and my thoughts became clearer. At 10 months, I mourned the love child that would never be. At 44 weeks, I remained in a state of paralyzing anxiety realizing that 52 weeks was certainly near.

And at 52 weeks, today, I had to wake myself to write this post before midnight. I feel sick to my stomach. I am tired as fuck. Everything on my body has hurt for a week.

But my love for Him remains unchanged.