The spring weather has been agreeing with me lately. I derive no end of pleasure in fresh, breezy warmth cosseting my skin. My bones have felt cold for far too long, and not simply because of winter's unpleasant lingering.
Our cats are enjoying the weather, too. On any given sunny day, I can find Tabby parked in a spot of sunlight in the kitchen, even if that means lying on the tile floor when her soft fleece bed is a foot away in the shade, or in the square left on the attic carpet from the skylight. Likewise for Calico; Little Thief is too busy zooming around and being irritating to snooze in one spot for long.
I've been quite sure since at least my undergraduate years that I suffer from some degree of Seasonal Affective Disorder, owing to my restlessness and depression in struggling through the endless Massachusetts winters. The sunlight, I know, is doing me good. On Monday I sat on the porch for awhile, my nose stuck in my latest pleasure read, John Adams, and the experience was exceedingly pleasant. Even the enormous and terrifying bee-like objects hovering around in the bushes in front of me seemed content to leave me be.
I hope to get myself outdoors more often now, although I am not entirely sure what to do with myself. I don't really have a partner anymore who is willing to go for impromptu walks, or to a park. This saddens me, but I suppose I must shift my ways and expectations. Despite a nagging, years-old knee injury, I hope to run again to a limited degree soon, and have been doggedly working out in pursuit of substantially strengthening my legs so that my muscles can stabilize the knee joint. I do love running, and through everything I have experienced, I consider its absence from my life to be one of the greatest losses I have endured in the past several years.
I have been staying busy in other ways, as I strive to pick up the pieces K left behind in his hasty departure. I finished John Adams just this morning, all (large-type) 989 pages of it, and found it more inspiring than I would have assumed. I feel I know the man intimately now -- a testament, certainly, to author David McCollough's talents. It was only through my trip with K to Colonial Williamsburg last September, and the readings and research I have done in the time since, that I have realized the extent to which learning about and experiencing American history brings me joy. I dusted my sister's copy of 1776 in about four days over spring break, completely enthralled by it, and that, of course was highly useful to me, distracting me as it did from my recent breakup and crushing loneliness. I am all the more determined to move to Virginia someday, both to have a better quality of life and so that I may live closer to such important sites of American colonial history. I can only imagine the rapturous pleasure of living within two hours of Williamsburg, Monticello, Jamestown, and Washington, D.C., among many other places.
As mentioned, I have been working out with wonderful regularity, and with the most determination I have had since before what I have now come to call "the horrible." My arms are quite toned now, and one workout in particular that I have been dutifully working on for some months is slowly becoming easier. I also have been eating very healthfully lately, which, of course, has much longer-term, less-noticeable benefits to me, but that I know very well is benefiting me nevertheless. It is good to feel that, at least in this one aspect of my life, I am making progress and moving forward. (I suppose I am in school, too; I continue to pull down excellent grades and am nearly completed with my first semester.)
I also have been giving consideration lately to the aftermaths of K and RJ, and how very different my experiences were. With RJ, I did not so much allow myself to give in to hatred of him but, in fact, wholeheartedly embraced it. Revenge fantasies dominated my thoughts for far longer than I care to admit, and it took me a very, very, very long time -- indeed, until the end of my relationship with K -- to just legitimately stop caring about anything to do with him. Of course, my experiences with K were infinitely more positive and affirming, whereas those with RJ were destructive and toxic, so it is natural that the aftermaths would be different. But I believe very strongly that a large part of the difference in my feelings after all was said and done with both can be explained by the different alignments of my attitude with either.
I have discussed several times here how I cannot and refuse to hate K, despite some legitimate grievances I have with the way he handled things before, during, and after the breakup. "K is K," I remind myself when he has again disappointed or hurt me, "this is the way he is." And, with those flaws, he is still someone I really care about and wish well. I don't believe he is any less or less worthy of a person for his flaws than I am, and there are still many traits of his for which I have great admiration and respect.
In the midst of pain stemming from his words and actions, I have found it beneficial, in a very real way, to redirect those thoughts and instead imagine his face, his gentle mannerisms, the graceful strength of his being. I cannot help but think tenderly upon him when such images hold court in my mind; feelings of resentment and pride melt away. It is simply impossible to underscore how significant a development this is, when my modus operandi for the past decade and more has been to lash out in anger when experiencing pain, both, I suppose, as self-defense, to hide my vulnerability, and to strike down the source of my hurt so that they might know my nightmare, as well.
The path of my recovery remains littered with significant obstacles, and so very often I must backtrack, or take the long way around, in order to move forward. This is a process, swelling with grief, that I would wish upon no one. But still, I can take a small comfort from the knowledge that I am doing as I ought, that my thought patterns are serving me (and, by extension, K) well instead of poisoning me with impotent hatred. I have changed so much since my time with RJ, and thankfully so. I do not ever want to feel such rage against another person again.
My day-to-day existence is soaked with sadness, still, as I mourn what I've lost both in past and future. But I am trying as hard as I can to find the small joys that exist all around me, even such simple things as boughs everywhere springing into verdancy, a classmate making me laugh, a solid and steady Tree Pose, a good book.
I do not yet know how much longer I will voluntarily stay here, but I do know that, for right now, I am managing.
