The Black Box Of Lazy Sundays

Dear Ex:

I know today is not a Sunday; it's Monday but it totally feels like a Sunday.  Sundays are hard days for me because for some reason, it is on Sundays when I miss you the most.  I am not sure if these overwhelming emotions are triggered particularly on Sundays because of being hungover from Saturday's debauchery and my brain chemicals are all out of whack, or simply because Sundays were our best days together.

I miss our lazy Sundays.  We never got anything done other than stuff our faces with bad food but that was okay.  We sat around watching TV or totally absorbed with our iPhones, not necessarily interacting with each other, but to know that you were right there next to me was an amazing feeling.  I often thought about those moments when we would just chill and not say a word; and I asked myself if this was an issue, but I never really identified as such because words don't always have to be shared for a moment to be meaningful.  Yes, our lazy sundays were special.

No matter how hard I try to steer away from getting caught up in reminiscing of us on Sundays; something always just pops out of no where and reminds me of you.  It's weird.  These reminders make me ache - it's an odd type of ache.  It's an ache that has changed and evolved, and one that I certainly cannot say has started to fade allowing me to heal and move on.  The ache has changed and it has become a more torturous type of ache.

When i think of you now, the memory of you is almost distant; like a dream that you had one night and then you remember bits and pieces of it throughout the day.  I think of you and you seem so far away and I even have to ask myself if what we had was ever real?  Or is it all a figment of my imagination?  Crazy, I know it.  But that's how it seems... and the hardest part about it, is realizing that now, the ache that lives in me now, hurts more than when you left.  

Part of me; I think, fears facing what this ache will evolve into.  It might just turn out to NOT be an emotional scar; but instead... some sort of permanent void left behind aching to be filled.  I don't know. I simply can't explain it.  It's not an ache that burns or sizzles; it's simply... an empty box, so quiet and so dark and small but huge at the same time, with a silence so powerful that it hurts.  It has a loud quietness that echoes off from the walls of the almost empty house.

And so now it is that I don't like to think of you, because the thoughts of you open up this dark little box and I just don't want fall into it and possibly get trapped.   God only knows that evil creatures lurks inside the deepest darker corners of this box.  I just simply have to keep it sealed.

So, yes.  Sundays are hard for me.  Because Sundays were our days.  For me, Sundays will forever be marked by the things we did.  Things that I dearly miss.  Good things and bad things that occupied our Sundays and our lives that are no longer there that I dearly miss.  I miss them so much that the feeling starts to claw at the lock that holds the lid on that dark box I keep tightly closed.   I've almost sort of forgotten all of the good things, and the bad things have become good things.  Bad things that used to drive me absofuckinglutelly crazy, but that now I wish were still part of my life; for example, the sound of the french doors opening and closing when you went out to smoke; followed by the smell of the cigarette in your breath and you hands - who knew that one day I; who hates smokers, would say that i missed the smell of cigarette on you?  Or who the hell misses seeing an ashtray packed to the rim with cigarette butts?   And then some.  LOL.   I miss those Sundays during the spring and the summer where we would go sit on our bench and just sit there and look at OUR house.  It was ours.  OURS.  (Oh shit, the black-box lid is starting to come loose...  Need to reinforce it).

I've thought a lot about us.  I want you back but I don't want you back.  Why don't I want you back into my Sundays?  Because leaving was probably the best thing you could have done for yourself.  I am so so so proud of you.  I am so happy to see how much you have grown and all the things; however small or big, that you have accomplished.  And I look forward to seeing all that you'll achieve in life and I know it will be TONS!  Although I miss you like crazy and want you back but don't want you back, I gives me great joy to see the great person you've become!  I know that a little bit of the person that you are today was shaped by me; and the same goes for me:  you shaped part of me.

Okay, I better wrap-up this entry and go tighten the lid on that damn black box before I accidentally get sucked in and eaten by whatever dark creature that lurks in it.

Yours truly,
the other lazy one on Sundays.

Have you accepted Death as your exit door and savior?

And so Amy Winehouse died from her alcoholism and drug addiction.  Amen.  Rest in peace girl.

And somehow, it just makes sense.  Of course I am upset because I love her music and her voice; but in a way, I am sort of okay with her death, because something tells me that at a certain point, she was done... and so she lived her short life the way she wanted.  And Amen again.

I say that it makes sense because recently it occurred to me, that we all come to a point in our lives when we make that conscious decision of just how long we want to live.  And each of us makes this decision at different times - some young, some old; but once the decision is made, the rest is history.  Some of us decide that we want to live to be 80 and leave behind a legacy of American consumers; others of us... although we don't kill ourselves, we simply... accept it.  The inevitable.  And so I guess some of us die without the body dying?  LOL.  I know, I know.  Makes no sense.

And so when I listen to Amy's music; with that achy voice drowning in sorrow and heartache, I personally hear that "Fuck you.  I'm gonna drink and just curl up and die".   So, she did just that.  The Fame, the money, her family... nothing mattered to her other than love and her substances.  Love came and fucked it all up and the rest was history.  Same for Billy Holiday.  And Same for Edith Piaf.  Sweet Jesus!

I know a lot of people that fit this description.  Young and old, people that have lived; at different paces, and then they make peace with their death - however far or close it may be, or in whatever form that it may come.   At the same time, I know tons of people who live every day in fear of the unknown, avoiding danger and risk at all cost.

So, when I started thinking about Amy's death making sense to me, a lot of other things simultaneously made sense to me.  Writing about this is a little uncomfortable only because people tend to take things out of context and interpret them in different ways.  I will say this right now, loud and clear:   No, I am not suicidal.  Please, don't expect to come find me in a tub full of blood and lavender bubbles.  Go find your fun elsewhere bitches!!

Anyway, when I was a kid, I had a very intense interest in death.  I have no idea where that came from.  So passionate was I about death that I even attempted to kill myself at the age of 10 by mixing some lemonade and some "liquid" my mother had in a jar.  I remember adding tons of sugar to the potion to  make it taste good as it went down.  I drank the minty substance and then went to say my farewells.  As I approached my mother, crying my eyes out and confessing what I had done... she rolled her eyes and embraced me.   I fell asleep and then woke up hours later.  My mother wasn't happy with my efforts to encounter death at a young age, but she knew that what I had ingested (herbal ointment) would not off me!  So, she didn't panic and allowed me to rest.  Amen and bless her heart.  (She was a great mother, btw.)

I never forgot that episode, particularly because I had, without hesitation made that decision to go at such an early age.  I had lived.  LOL LOL.   Now, a lot has happened since that day.  It's been some 26 years and I have done and lived so much and there is nothing I have done in life that i regret doing, both good and bad.  My life has been amazing so far and it would not have been such an amazing ride if anything was to be changed.

When I got diagnosed with Diabetes at the age of 20; I gave myself 20 years to live life before I died.  Damn it, that's only four years away.  BUT, I am okay.  I have made peace with death and when it comes, I am ready.   I only ask for death to come fast and quick, and that there will be someone to feed my cats.  I have no children to leave abandoned behind; nor a wife or a husband to leave with the financial burden and a broken heart.  I have me and when I leave, I will be taking me with me.  Pack light bitch!!

So Queen Death Diva... bring it!!  I don't fear you.

In the mean time, while I await her arrival, I will just enjoy life, travel, have some Cabernet Sauvignon and enjoy all the wonderful things and people that surround me.

Amen.