Monster

I miss you.
At least I think I miss you.
Though sometimes I wonder if I’m confusing you with someone else, like a man from a novel or a poem.

I’ll remember feeling adored by you, it felt so good. Only then I’ll realize that it wasn’t me who felt adored, it was Keira Knightley’s character in that classic mid-90’s period drama. She was adored by that lanky guy with the swoop-y hair. It wasn’t me.

There is such deep grief in remembering, even in the fake memories there is deep grief.

Why haven’t we developed a machine to excise grief from our psyches? We could go to a Wellness Spa and get Reiki, followed by a Blue Algae Facial and then a session of Grief Excising with Lily, the Nurse Practitioner. She would gently rub a rose gold wand over our cranium. The grief would be sucked up and out the wand and Lily would then tap gently on a triangle signaling the end of our session. Grief Excising would probably have to be done every 3 months, like botox. Wait too long or miss a session and risk having your psyche saturated again with darkness.

I miss us.
Perhaps I miss an us that never existed. Or perhaps I have slightly enhanced the memories, sweetened them. But that’s okay, a rose-tinted view is always prettier. So I guess I miss that rose-tinted version of us.

What to do?
What does one do with this kind of grief?
Write in a journal? “Dear Diary, I’m sad.”
Talk to a therapist? “How do you feel today?” “I feel sad.”
Exercise? “This long walk is reminding me of the long walks I used to take with you.”
Do Ayahuasca in the desert? “I’m so hot and sweaty and I’m not having any magical breakthroughs. I feel like vomiting and all I want to do is lie down in an air conditioned hotel room.”

Or maybe we surrender to the grief. Let the grief monster consume us, let it fucking devour us. And then if we’re lucky, the monster will spit us back out. We’ll look raggedy, like we just came off a scary ride at the county fair, but we’ll be free.