In the end, all we’re left with are memories
Everything changed when I got back from the hospital. The lights didn't come on in my head whenever I thought of loved ones, and some days were empty, and sick, and cold that I wondered how I would cope with a life this bland. There were afternoons that blended with the evenings, and nights that stretched on for far too long. Days I didn't want to get out of bed, and weekends I wanted wild sex because I felt that was the only thing that could make me come alive in a way.
I read somewhere that people get very lonely and tired that they do bad things to keep them alive. Maybe my smoking was that “bad” thing that kept me sane. Heck, maybe my reckless, impulsive sex was another “bad” thing that kept me sane. All I know is that days without these vices were long and tiring, and my medications made it difficult for me to function as a proper human being. And it sucked more times than not, because I also needed the medications to be able to function.
There are days I find myself doom scrolling on social media, viewing the statuses of people I have loved and lost, strangers I never bothered to bond with, and people in my immediate environment who had to be on my contact list for necessity sake. And I find four, sometimes five or six, people I used to talk to almost all the time. Girls. Sweethearts that we kind of drifted off. And you know what often hurts the most? It's the fact that we drifted away while I was in the hospital.
In the hospital, there was no way to reach your loved ones except two immediate family members. So I guess the saying, “out of sight, out of mind” is true. Because although there were days I thought of these loved ones I left in the outside world, more often than not, I didn't think about them. I guess it was the same for them. After all, you don't plant a flower, go away and expect it to remain the same way it was. Change is constant, but that doesn't stop it from hurting any less.
Most especially, I miss my therapist. I miss our revealing sessions. I miss having a support system. Yes, there are one or two people I talk to every now and then, but it's not like before—before the hospital. I could go a day or two not talking to anyone about things that are not related to work or just random stuff. I miss knowing that I can call someone to rant to them, and I won't feel a kind of way about possibly “oversharing.” It's not that some of these people are no longer in my life, it's just that everything feels different.
My writing feels different. The way I think is different. How I see the world is different. Everything I do is different. Heck, it feels like I underwent surgery that changed everything about me—down to the size of my body. So sometimes I don't know if I like the change or not, but one thing I'm always sure of is that I have gotten better. In every area. And if better means lesser options, I guess that can be a good thing. If being better means being more confident and more firm, I know that it is a good thing.
In the weeks, days and months that would come, more changes would happen. So I hope I face it as positively as I’m facing all the changes in my life right now. More than that, I hope I’m able to make something out of my life, in a way that shows me that the loneliness and melancholy shall pass, too.
