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I dreamed about you again last night.

I used to think I didn't dream.  It wasn't until I got to college and took freshman Psych that I learned the opposite was true.  That everyone dreams, some just have no memories of them.  That's how it always was for me until you died.  Now, every so often, I dream of you and while I rarely remember specifics what's left is always the feeling that I was holding you until somehow, you got away.

It was a shitty morning in Cambridge.  It's rainy and dreary here today and I did not want to get out of bed but I pushed myself anyway, pushed myself because I only have a one month membership to Healthworks so I have to enjoy every minute of it.  Pushed myself because now that I'm on Prozac, pushing myself is a possibility again.  Pushed myself because it's what you would have wanted me to do, yet when I got to the gym I still didn't want to be there.  Took the elevator up to the fitness studio instead of walking the three flights of stairs.  Got on the treadmill halfheartedly, instead of putting in real effort on the elliptical.  But by the time Chris Brown finished singing "Party" (the clean version that you would have laughed at me for downloading) I was smiling again.  And by the time Shawn Mendes finished "There's Nothing Holding Me Back" I had picked up the pace.  And by the time I finished listening to Shawn Mendes for the second time in a row, the high had kicked in and I was running. Slowly of course, jogging really, just jogging one minute, walking the next but a calm had settled my spirit and the endorphins were elevating quickly and by the time someone finally got on the treadmill a few machines over from me, I was glowing and sweating and panting and happy as fuck.  And as I walked/jogged for the next 45 minutes, as I watched Jeremy, my virtual trainer telling me to pick up the pace, as I watched the green hillside of British Columbia whiz by me on the treadmill's television monitor, every single cell in my body was singing.  And I wished I had somebody there to share it with.  Wished I could call out to the woman two treadmills away and ask her if she felt this way too. If she hadn't wanted to get her lazy ass out of bed this morning either but now that she was there, running much, much faster and much, much more consistently than I could ever hope to do, wasn't she elated too?  Wasn't she thrilled that she had decided to fight her way through the gloom and doom of a rainy Thursday morning, through her own still lingering depression, and made her way over to Healthworks in spite of it all?

I have a long way to go, babe, I know that.  I'm still digging my way out of the abyss that is clinical depression. But...being home, being back in Cambridge, being back at Healthworks is helping.  I'm healing.  Slowly but surely I'm healing and while I can't imagine living here again, can't imagine living anywhere where memories of our life together don't come at me in a rush the minute I open my front door, for now, for the month of July, it feels really good to be home.  

 

Life After Death

It's 5:30 a.m. and I should be making my way to the gym right now, or eating my favorite yogurt breakfast, or trying to decide between watching 21 Jump Street for the 100th time or a basketball saturated episode of Mike and Mike.  Instead, I'm sitting on my mother's couch, listening to the ticking of her loud ass clock, and watching Amira sleep peacefully on our new air mattress.

You died exactly one year ago today.

I know that I'm supposed to have something profound to say about your passing, about what I've learned, about how we've coped.  I know that I'm supposed to have amassed a bevy of philosophical musings regarding the nature of grief, the path to overcoming depression, and the fragility of life but the truth is, I can't focus on any of that bullshit right now.  Instead one thought keeps running through my mind.

Khadija, how do you want to LIVE?

The one thing I've truly learned this year is that the old cliche is true:

Life is really fucking short.

It's too short not to apologize to those we've wronged.

Too short not to tell our loved ones just how much they mean to us.

Too short not to take chances.

Too short not to fix that which can be fixed.

Too short to waste precious time holding on to that which is beyond repair.

I've lived the majority of my life vacillating between two default conditions: fear and regret.

No more.

Life is too short.

I'm so grateful to God for the years I got to spend with Lorenzo.  He was my life partner, my baby's daddy, my best friend.  He was the kick in the ass I CONSTANTLY needed, he was the annoying voice of reason I hated to hear.  He was my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic.  He was the therapist I never wanted, and the comedian who refused to get off the stage.  He was a man of God, a man of science and a man of his word.  He was a complete and a total know it all.   A never ending pain in my ass.

He was the love of my life.

Last night, while helping my best friend clean out her deceased mom's home, Michele asked me what I want to do today, to commemorate Lorenzo's passing.  I've thought about that all night and here's what I've come up with.

I want to spend today living and loving fearlessly.

I want to celebrate the memories of our life together.

I want to begin the process of moving forward without him.

Simply put, I want to live.