I’ve recently found myself lost in despair thinking about the past. Instead of being haunted by what I’ve experienced I’m drowning in grief over the realization that I’ll never see those days again.
Fall semester 2018 carpooling with my best friend and sitting in the library waiting for her to get out of her last class so we could go home. I’d sit in the quiet zone on the second floor. On the side of the building that got direct sunlight in the afternoon. I’d listen to music and read Catch-22 for my upcoming paper or do my homework for some other class. Or I’d close my eyes and lay my face on the desk facing the window so the incoming light could bake my face and back.
I tried to relive those moments over the past few years but it was never the same. In the library alone, usually at night. No longer majoring in history, now majoring in accounting. Alone. No more 4.0, struggling my ass off and still not really getting by. Cold. Nervous breakdown in 2020 left me feeling brain damaged. I’ve never felt the same and I’ve never felt right since then. Ouch.
Now I’m in Alabama. I have a new life. Degree received. New job. The job I went to school for. New relationship. Left the life I knew to be in a new one with them. New setting. None of the things I used to have are in my reach. None of the people I love are close enough to touch or hug. I can’t go to the library and read a book and listen to Astrud Gilberto because that world no longer exists. I’m hours away from that place and years away from where I was. Doesn’t knowing you can’t ever go back just bring you to your knees?
I’ve become such a different person and I’m glad for that. I’ve made so much progress and I’m glad for that. But fuck I didn’t realize how much I’d miss those days once I was out of them.
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