I’ve always hated February, especially February the second. This day is the anniversary of 3 things in my life. It marked the death of my Aunt, the death of my Grandfather and the death of a cherished relationship. A relationship that introduced me to a wider world yet simultaneously narrowed my thinking. A relationship that I poured my heart and soul into, a relationship that almost killed me.
I sunk into a deep depression. My stomach wouldn’t let me handle solid food for a week. My anxiety was unimaginable. I was a total mess and I wanted more than anything to get her back. I finally took solace in exercise. Though I wasn’t eating, I spent almost 3 hours a day in the gym. Loud music and the burn of muscle exhaustion carried me through the worst of it. As much as I hated myself, I realized the joy of a good workout and at the time, developed a new addiction.
Throughout my lifetime I’ve been exposed to alcoholism, and I’d never been a stranger to the bottom of a glass, but once my stomach settled I started to drink. I was drinking to forget, drinking to be happy, drinking to be anywhere but where I was. I tried to drown my pain and float my sorrows away but, alas, no volume of whiskey could fill the void that she left. My heart was broken, in pieces and pickled.
As I sobered up for the final time, it hit me, she was gone for good and I was on my own. Being shy made it very hard to get out and try to have fun again, meet people and maybe fill the void. I wanted that companionship, the love and the caring. I wanted to wake up next to somebody. I wanted so much, I had a huge hole to fill, but the more I tried the more I failed.
The prospects were grim, until a fateful Friday afternoon. I met a girl for coffee, an innocent enough proposal. Coffee turned to talking and talking turned to a friendship. It was a great friendship that was developing. We had similar interests and I found her very attractive. I thought that my hole was finally being filled.
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