It's Not About Moving On, It's About Moving Forward

It's about finding ways to make yourself happy each day, they say. So today, after drinking my morning cup of Plantation Mint tea, I took a hot shower and washed my hair -- even though I washed it just two days ago, and in the winter, I can go a full three or four days. I dried it using my curling brush to curve the ends under. More than that, I put on make up -- a full face with foundation, powder, blush -- eyeshadow, even, to camouflage my Quasimodo eyes, swollen from a bad yesterday with too many tears. But today, today it's a better day. I make myself believe that, and I put on my mask to complete the facade. Today I am happy, and today my hair is shining and I've put on my face. I don't think I have done that in twenty-three days.

It's been twenty three days since this all happened. I am only on day twenty-three.

Working away from home has been helping, too. I have been tapping into the part of myself that has always dreamed of writing or working from a coffee shop all day. I'm auditioning this new life, this new city, maybe a new me... seeing if maybe I could fit, figuring out who I would be here, which part I would play.

There have been distant rumblings from his side of this fence. I've heard things, he's heard things. It's day twenty-three. What hurts most is that he hasn't tried to contact me. Not even text message to test the waters, to see if I am alive. I am his best friend. We were going to get MARRIED. He called me wifey. And on day twenty three, more silence.

This is a person who knew all of my faces and found delight in each one of them. He kept pictures of me when I was little -- one where I was a grumpy flower girl at my aunt's wedding reception; another with my brothers, where I was clearly not in the mood to take a picture, probably because they'd just punched me in the shoulder; one where I was happiest, at my sixth birthday party, in a pretty red dress, my eyes like big fat almonds. I've seen that face before, he'd say. There's something about a love where someone loves you so much, they see the child within you. Because that part of you is the essence of who you are -- the part of you that believes in promises, dares to dream, holds onto hope against all odds, and believes in the goodness of people. It's the innocence that believes in fate, and that fate that wants to keep faith.

It's becoming harder to hold onto faith. To believe it's not over. I try, but it's all just becoming a weird game where it's no longer present tense but past tense. It's not about moving on, it's about moving forward, but still having that little compartment where you store your hope. So I try to move forward. And forward for me is sitting here in this coffee shop, writing and designing. It's getting out of the house, it's a hot shower, it's clean hair, it's a made-up face. It's about me using this time to continue the same dreams I had for myself when we were together... and just hold onto hope that he meets me on the other side.