me Before you.

When yesterday began, I was feeling whole and alright.
However, I found myself, as the day wore on, a bit overcome with this feeling of dread.
I knew that by the end of the day I’d be a broken, hollow mess.

And I was right.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’m an emotional being. I used to wish that I wasn’t. I used to wish I could let things roll off my back with no harm done, but you know what? I’ve decided I don’t wish that. I don’t wish that on my worst enemy. (As if I had the energy to have enemies.) Let’s just say… I wouldn’t wish numbness on any of the people that make my stomach lurch with disgust when I see them.
They, of all people, need to relinquish the Nothing and feel.

I have also mentioned previously that I love to read. I try not to be judgmental of works, though I do like what I like. I’ll admit, it’s a relatively broad spectrum: I’ll try anything once.

Last night, I finished a NY Times bestselling novel.
Now, was it Ernest Hemingway? No. Was it Wilde? Certainly not. Was it Baldwin? Nothing is.
It was (or rather is) a story. A story to get lost in. And sometimes, that’s all you need. Hell, I know it’s all I need.

But this one…
This one left me bawling through the last chapter.
I wasn’t crying the same tears I cried in Go Set A Watchman. I wasn’t crying tears that were quite so… deep and meaningful.

I cried because the thought of losing someone is hard, even if you only just met them yesterday.
Because in a book, you didn’t only just meet them yesterday. You’ve lived with them. You lived the days with them, the nights, the memories. It’s weird to feel like you have memories with a nonexistent, fictional person.

My friend Molly pointed this novel in my direction. She saw the trailer for the upcoming film adaptation and thought we should both have a good cry: at the hands of the book first, then the movie.  It’s obvious, from the trailer, that film is directed toward women, primarily: a young woman falls in love, after a series of struggles, with a quadriplegic man.

Without Molly, this is probably what would’ve happened:
-I see the trailer and say, “Well, that looks like a cheesy tear-jerker.” I secretly think that I’ll have to watch it at some point, though I should probably pretend I’m not so girly as to actually like that sort of thing.
-I see the movie. Probably not in theaters. Probably at home one night while Raines is at rehearsal.
-I cry my eyes out, because… guess what? I do like it. (Well, ‘like’ is a weird word to use for a film/novel labeled “tearjerker”.)

So, I’m thankful for Molly. (Thank you, Molly!) I’m glad we decided to read it first. I’m glad I decided to let it break me in half.

Yesterday, before lunch, I texted my husband:
“Well, dammit. I just fell in love with the quadriplegic guy. And she [the main character] won’t be far behind.  It can only get worse from here.”

I was right.
It broke me in half. Raines likes when I read my favorite bits of things aloud to him and, because I had done so during the course of this one a time or two, he wanted me to read the last chapter aloud to him while he folded laundry. He was curious. He wanted to know where it would go.

I started out pretty successfully reading the chapter, though I could feel that knot in my stomach rising and rising until finally it became a lump in my throat and I…

I stopped.
“I can’t.”
I couldn’t do it aloud. I couldn’t live this moment out in front of anyone.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. My husband was in the room with me and I was glad to share it with him, glad to have him hold me after. But I couldn’t force the words to pass my lips. It was hard enough letting them pass my soul.

I love reading. I love falling in love with fictional characters. I both love and hate feeling things so deeply that I wonder if I’ll get back up again. But I do. I get back up again. I dive right back in again. And you know why?

I think art and love are the best reasons to be alive. Perhaps, the only reasons we have to wake up every morning. I live for novels that consume my day. I crave poetry that knocks me to my knees. I relish in films and performances that leave me stuck in my chair, afraid to move for fear I’ll lose it.
And I’m lucky.
I have an amazing husband who lets me fall in love like a little schoolgirl with the boys in my books. He lets me cry when my fictional father, Atticus, has me shaking with desperation. He saves me from suffering along with them. He thinks it’s great. He thinks I’m great. He is the greatest gift I could ever receive.

I was broken last night. Briefly.
I finished the book. I finished the crying. (I was momentarily on the verge of exploding and unleashing the fury that is Brooke at one point because people tried to mess with me, tried to piss me off, directly after I had suffered the loss, the closing of a book.) He took me in his arms.
We watched Daredevil and I put the words away.
I miss them.
I’ll miss them for a while.
I’ll struggle trying to start the next novel because I won’t feel quite ready.

And then, I’ll be lost in some other world again.