If
someone had asked me more than a week before how I would react
if Molly left me, this is not what I would have described. “I’d
be able to watch my team lose in football without interruption”
would have been the response. But not this. A week of
pretending nothing was wrong, interspersed with moments of panic
and foreboding, in which I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t
see straight, couldn’t stop crying. When was the last time I
cried? It had to have been a while before, because I was
genuinely surprised at how heaving sobs could feel good and bad
at the same time.
Maybe if I had seen it
coming…but I hadn’t. I thought Molly was happy. I thought she
loved me. I thought we were going to grow old together. Maybe
that’s what scared her. Maybe she wasn’t scared at all, but she
really wasn’t happy, and I was just oblivious. I could
go on forever with maybes, but they didn’t help me figure things
out standing in front of those sinks in that bathroom. Nothing
had ever hurt as bad as Molly leaving. Nothing. The pain was
palpable too, more physical than mental or emotional. It hurt
in my throat and my chest, and made breathing very difficult.
When it was at its worst, the panic attacks would return.
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