Right After

My breath caught in my throat. My hands went to my mouth to quiet a sob. Even in my sadness, I didn't want to wake my roommate, who was snoozing on the couch beside me.

A few tears fell. I stopped them. I took a few deep breaths.

I got my things together.

My roommate woke. I told her the news. She expressed her sympathy. I told her goodnight.

I went upstairs, closed the door to my room, turned on the radio, and cried into my pillow. I gave myself five minutes.

When I felt the time had come to calm down, I tried calling a friend; no answer. I texted them, telling them to call me when they were free.

I called another friend.  They picked up. We talked; they distracted me, calmed me down. I thanked them. I hung up.

I pulled out my laptop and started writing. I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

I typed the things I couldn't say, the things I didn't say, the things I didn't want to say or believe. I read back what I wrote. I cried again.

I wrote more. I let my mind go where I had kept my mind from wondering. I named, owned, and accepted my feelings. I awknowledged my part in my hurt.

I questioned what was to come next. I questioned who I was as a person, my intentions, my expectations. I questioned and answered and accepted some more.

It all helped, a bit.

I put away my laptop, curled up with my stuffed turtle, and went to sleep, my cries now ended.

And now I'm... better. I'm okay-ish. I'm still moving forward, because I have no choice in it. I have to do it, whether or not it's the way I had hoped.

I am who I am, disappointments or not.