"The Girl She Used to Be"

"I don't have a name. I don't know what to do.
The only thing I know for certain is that I must begin to heal.

Just like every time my life was re-created, I had to begin restoring the foundered part of my being: the lost relationships, the familiarity of a neighborhood, the sense of the person I might have been. There is an algebraic term for the technique for distributing two binomials, called the FOIL method. It stands for first, outer; inner, last. And that is exactly how I have learned to repair myself time after time: from the outside in." 

p.233 "The Girl She Used to Be," by David Cristofano 

Who was the person you used to be?

I don't have a name. I don't know what to do. I am not the person I used to be. 

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That person was an intact person who laughed loudly and loved hard. This person is all broken inside, and these shards are awfully sharp. I turn them over in my hands, drawing blood, as I examine each of his open mouthed laughs, each heavy tear, each great big bear hug. I used to be a little bruised, a little scarred. But these things healed and grew and brought me to him.He loved my resilience, my strength. I was strong. I was strong for me, and I was strong for him. But, I wasn't strong enough, and I'm not strong now. 

I honestly don't even feel like I know who I used to be. It's been less than three months, but I've already forgotten her. Remembering him takes up all the space. 

I used to be someone's. That was nice. 

I used to be a girl who made long lists. He loved my lists and how much fun they let us have. 

I used to be able to think quickly. He liked to brag about how proud he was of me. 

I used to sleep so soundly, wrapped in his arms. Now, it turns out that not even Ambien can touch grief insomnia. 

I used to be a woman who loved to cook him delicious dinners. I barely manage eggs. 

I used to like dancing on the bed on a Tuesday night and singing in the shower before we went over to my sister's house for our standing Sunday dinners. 

I used to sing in the car and put my hair in silly buns. 

I used to be cranky with him in the morning. 

I used to be engaged.

I used to be able to focus. To write for hours and I have started and stopped this first prompt after each sentence. 

I used to get so excited when I got off work. There was always a night of possibilities waiting for me in his arms. 

I was a person who slept naked in an aspen grove with the love of my life and got a sunburn on both sets of cheeks. 

I don't have a name. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to grieve him and the me I used to be at the same time. It's too much to do. The shit is piling up in the corners and starting to smell, but I can't get through it all. 

I don't know what to do about the penny you dropped on the bathroom floor that morning. All I know is I can't move it. Just keep cleaning around it. Or what do I do with the food rotting in the fridge that you savored and saved for later. I only know I can't get rid of it. What do I do with your shoes by the door or the Walgreens receipt in the car? What do I do with this beast that is my grief riding my back, weakening my knees? How do I shake this beast? How do I love this beast despite his meanness? 

How do I breathe when it's the each breath that brings me one breath further from my love?  

I'm not who I used to be. I used to be flawed but not fearful. Now, I am scared of each breath. Scared of each morning. Scared of each day I have to be without him. Scared I can't do this. Scared I can do this. Scared of how much I'm drinking. Scared of not being able to stop. Scared of losing my job. Scared of losing my mind. Scared of scattering his ashes. Scared of forgetting him. Scared of being alone. Fucking scared. And it's a useless emotion. It brings me no clarity, no insight, no solace. He left me scared and useless. And that is not who I used to be.