that fateful night

It was a Tuesday. A regular Tuesday. I went to work, and then decided to catch an early viewing of a movie I wanted to see that Jason* (*name changed) did not, as I knew he was working a late night.

I came home, did some housework. Nothing out of the ordinary. Jason came home and I could tell something was off, but I figured it was work related. Told me he wanted to talk so we went and sat on the couch and I at this point was still oblivious to how my life was about to be flipped completely upside down.

It is really hard to summarize a conversation that literally uprooted my life. I can tell you I have never cried that hard. It was the kind of crying where you are certain your heart has developed an arrhythmia and that your lungs are literally not functioning anymore. The kind of crying where it feels like the pressure in your face is most definitely going to make your eyeballs blow out of their sockets. The kind of crying where your throat is constricting and getting air is almost impossible. The kind of crying where you did not actually believe it was possible for your sinuses to produce that much fucking snot.

It was hard to hear that he wasn’t happy, nor had he ever been happy. It was hard to hear that the love of my life had never actually been in love with me. It was especially hard to hear that he was leaving to stay at a friends’ place who was out of town, and needed some space to think about what his next step was. It was even harder to sit on the couch, my entire body numb and shaking, and watch him walk out of the door his bag, and not look back.

I was in shock, followed by manic chaos. I knew what an anxiety attack was, and I was having one. A doozy. The anxiety attack to end all anxiety attacks. I remember laying on my living room floor with my face shoved into my area rug just gasping for breath. I couldn’t find my breath. Rational, medical side of me knew I needed air, so I went and stood out on my freezing patio and tried to calm myself down, not much different from a colicky baby.

My brain went straight to suicide. I had no plan, I had no idea how to do it, but all I knew is that I at that exact moment no longer wanted to feel pain. If Jason never loved me, then basically the last 7 years of my life with him (including a wedding and getting married) were a lie, and that was something I knew for sure I couldn’t wrap my head around, or deal with in anyway.

Spoiler alert, I’m not dead. (If you were hoping for a ghost blogger, your hopes and dreams have been shattered). The one part I really appreciate about myself is somehow someway being able to think that night, and make the right choice over the wrong choice. I ended up calling the crisis hotline, a number I had to google, and was connected with a “volunteer crisis counseling adviser” who attempted to talk me down. Don’t get me wrong, these crisis hotlines have saved many people due to their staff being so attentive in any situations. It might have been the fact that I had more mental health education than she did, or the fact that she sounded 18, but I forced my way through the conversation and hung up — no longer suicidal, but pissed off with the mental health system and the support I received. It was almost a joke.

After hanging up the phone I could no longer cry. I cried every oz of fluid I had. I caught glimpse of myself before laying on my floor and what I saw made me almost puke. I looked like Bellatrix Lestrange post-Acid trip. I just stared at myself in the mirror and talked to myself. I am proud that I am able to remember very minute details of my entire situation, but I can’t remember what I was saying to myself that night. It’s a repressed memory, and one I hope I never recover, as I can guarantee I wasn’t being kind to myself. I briefly remember blaming myself and calling myself a multitude of names laced with hate and malice, but the details are vague.

I knew I couldn’t sleep in the bed that we had shared, so I grabbed a pillow and blanket and curled up on my living room floor. I was an empty vessel. I felt like a shell of what I was not even an hour earlier. It dawned on me, as I laid there all night not sleeping, that he deserves the space he wanted, but what about me? The last thing I wanted space from was him — he was my best friend. My very best friend. The person I spent all my time with. I didn’t want space — I wanted him.

I cried off and on throughout the night, and knew I had to man up as I had a 7:30 am obligation called WORK that I refused to miss. I knew for a fact that I could miss it. I was allowed — this would be one of the times I deemed a sick day to be acceptable. However, I knew taking the day off would result in questions. Questions I didn’t want to answer. Questions I didn’t actually know how to answer. “Sorry I wasn’t in yesterday, you see my husband told me he’s not in love with me, has never been in love with me, and left… so yeah. What did I miss?”

Needless to say my alarm clock did go off the next morning at 6:15. It was predictable, the one predictable thing in my life at that moment.

I had survived the first night of many.