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Entry tags:
Avoidance // for John
October 11th, 2020
[CW: grief, specifically regarding the loss of a mother; memories/discussion of emotional abuse; maladaptive coping mechanisms]
The date creeps up on him, as a lot of important dates do, but it doesn't matter. Last year he'd had a new cat to distract him, as well as a commitment to his own misery and guilt that made it all feel intentional and chosen. This year, he doesn't realize until he's washing up after lunch, spies the calendar on the fridge, wonders why the date seems familiar, and realizes. Almost exactly how he'd realized it was their Darrow anniversary just a few months ago, which could've made him laugh bitterly if he'd had even enough energy to do that. If he'd wanted to draw attention to it.
He'd forgotten. He'd actually forgotten, and might well have gone through this nice, sunny autumnal Sunday with his partner and never once remembered.
But he remembers now, and it's all he can think about, even though it doesn't matter, as he sits on the couch and reads — tries to read — with John buried in his own book beside him. He doesn't think of bringing it up, because what would be the point? At least it's such a dull ache that there's not much to show for it. No tears or heavy sighs or moping about the flat. Just a cat on his lap and John beside him and a book which, while its words are no longer holding him, at least serves well as something to look at.
The thing is, he's fine, and there's nothing to talk about, because it doesn't matter. It's been a long time since it mattered. There's no need to fixate on it; it's good he remembered, and he can spend some time thinking about it as he ought, but it need not extend past that, because it doesn't matter. It's fine, and he's fine, and it's all fine.
[CW: grief, specifically regarding the loss of a mother; memories/discussion of emotional abuse; maladaptive coping mechanisms]
The date creeps up on him, as a lot of important dates do, but it doesn't matter. Last year he'd had a new cat to distract him, as well as a commitment to his own misery and guilt that made it all feel intentional and chosen. This year, he doesn't realize until he's washing up after lunch, spies the calendar on the fridge, wonders why the date seems familiar, and realizes. Almost exactly how he'd realized it was their Darrow anniversary just a few months ago, which could've made him laugh bitterly if he'd had even enough energy to do that. If he'd wanted to draw attention to it.
He'd forgotten. He'd actually forgotten, and might well have gone through this nice, sunny autumnal Sunday with his partner and never once remembered.
But he remembers now, and it's all he can think about, even though it doesn't matter, as he sits on the couch and reads — tries to read — with John buried in his own book beside him. He doesn't think of bringing it up, because what would be the point? At least it's such a dull ache that there's not much to show for it. No tears or heavy sighs or moping about the flat. Just a cat on his lap and John beside him and a book which, while its words are no longer holding him, at least serves well as something to look at.
The thing is, he's fine, and there's nothing to talk about, because it doesn't matter. It's been a long time since it mattered. There's no need to fixate on it; it's good he remembered, and he can spend some time thinking about it as he ought, but it need not extend past that, because it doesn't matter. It's fine, and he's fine, and it's all fine.