Rabbit Hole (noun) Used to refer to a bizarre, confusing or nonsensical situation or environment, typically one which is difficult to extricate oneself.

He was always on my mind, always spilling from my heart, always arresting my thoughts, interrupting me with his voice, his laugh, his absence.

Autumn had arrived with brilliant sunshine and cool winds, carrying the promise of the end of the year to come, and for me, it couldn’t come soon enough. Shop windows and restaurants glowed with the orange and yellow leaves of Fall, happy scarecrows smiled from front porches and round pumpkins and planters bursting with red mums lined the steps of countless homes. While it wasn’t yet cold, people were starting to use their fireplaces and the intoxicating smell of burning firewood began to linger in the air. This was my favorite time of year, the months I looked forward to the most. It was the distraction I needed to forget, though I was only kidding myself; I couldn’t forget because I couldn’t understand … and though I tried so hard to deviate my thoughts from him, from it, I could not. It was as if my mind was attached to a rope and when I wandered away from the ache of all of it, that rope would pull me right back in.

I suppose this was another side effect to being dismissed from his life; I know people react differently, in their own way, to their broken heart. Some drink, but I didn’t. I don’t even drink enough to know how to drink, and the one time I did try to “drink away the pain” of a very broken heart, years before, I woke up on the floor with a half eaten frozen pumpkin pie resting on my stomach and my bangs were chopped off. (Yes, that really happened.) Believe me, a woman will only do that to herself once. This time around, I depressed myself half to death with sad 1970’s songs I found on YouTube, and I spent a lot of time alone, thinking and thinking, and slowly slipping into my own head … which I don’t recommend to anyone. I’d go to bed at night and swipe open my phone and lay there looking at his pictures, read old texts, thoughts tumbling over themselves. There was a specific video of him on my phone that I filmed a few months before in the summer, where he was releasing little blue crabs from a trap, and they were scurrying all around the deck. He picked one up very gingerly, it’s little claws swiping and snapping at him. He tilted his head and talked to that little crab, his voice warm and sweet, explaining that he is only trying to help him get back in the water, softly laughing as he bent down to reach over the water and opened his hand to release it, watching the little crab with it’s clicking claws slip back beneath the surface. It touched my heart that he didn’t just toss the little blue crab the water, but he delivered it back, gently and with kindness. It was endearing then and it still is. Those are the moments when I loved him the most. He has very kind heart. I would pause the video to look at his face, letting my eyes absorb all of it … missing his soft mouth, his warm eyes, his skin … missing him so much I could hardly breathe. I watched that video endlessly, and often, until I fell asleep, phone cradled in my hand. Night after night, I did this. I only wanted to hear his voice. I only wanted to feel him.

There were good days, too, when I felt like me again. One day was a particularly good; It was a Saturday, as a matter of fact, and I had decided to decorate my porch for Fall. It was beautiful, with hay bales, pumpkins, beautiful dark bronze lanterns … very elegant Autumn decor … it was “me” and I felt alive again. I went into the house, lit a cinnamon candle, and headed to the bathroom and turned the shower on. I slipped out of my clothes and caught my reflection in the mirror. I had lost a lot of weight. Wow. I hadn’t even tried to, and I knew I had grieved those pounds off. Looking at myself, actually happy with what I saw, (for once) I thought about him and wished he could see me now. Maybe he would be happier with my body now. Maybe he would decide to give me another chance. Maybe he would fall in love with a different Shannon. Maybe … maybe … maybe … The “maybe’s” clotted up into a confusing mass and I was again left wondering what really happened, the rejection shaking me awake again into reality. He’s gone. You lost weight you didn’t even need to lose, because he left. That’s what happened, you stupid white trash loser. He left you. Just like every man before him. It’s not him, it’s you. It’s you. It’s you. Get your shit together and figure out what it is that keeps men from staying. Turning around, I stepped into my shower stall under the spray of the hot water, feeling that it was a little too hot, wincing as I rotated the handle. I stood there with my eyes closed, exhaling into the steam. I silently washed my hair, staring blankly ahead at the wall, feeling that black sludge slowly rise in me again. God, the truth really does hurt. Rinsing the shampoo out and reaching for the conditioner, I squeezed it into my hand, and listened to the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. It was comforting … it sounds like rain. I like rain. After rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, I squirted a handful of shaving cream into my palm and propped my foot up, raising my leg, smearing the shaving cream from my ankle to my thigh as the hot water ran down my back. I took my razor and as I went to glide it up my calf, I stopped. Why am I shaving my legs? What for? Who cares? Who’s going to see or touch my legs again? I closed my eyes and without thinking, I swiped the razor up too carelessly, cutting myself deeply above my ankle. I felt it. It hurt. I didn’t move, I just looked at the fresh purple blood oozing out of my leg, dripping down, mingling with the shower water. The blood and hot water swirled around the drain and I just stood there watching it. Suddenly overcome with fatigue, I slid down the wall and slumped in a heap on the floor, curled up and leaning against the wall in my tiny shower, the hot water and blood all around me.

And then I broke. Pent up hurt and anger burst out of me as I bent over at the waist and screamed out everything I was feeling. I was yelling and banging my balled up fists on the floor, sobbing with broken jagged breaths, my explosion echoing in shower stall. I called him every name in the book, and screamed out how much I hated him and how he could he do this to me and fuck you for leaving me like this and I don’t need you anyway and on and on I went until I was spent and exhausted, drained of every last bit of myself, softly crying in little hiccups, my voice hoarse from screaming. Naked, bleeding and empty. That was all that was left of me at that moment. I allowed myself to hate him for just a moment, and then I realized that I loved him and that’s why this hurt so bad. I sat there on the shower floor, leaning against the wall, silent. Empty. The water slapped the tile beside me, steam rising from my body. Taking a deep breath, I blew it out slowly as I rose to my feet. I turned off the water, stepped out and wadded up some toilet paper for the gash on my leg, holding it there until the bleeding stopped. I dried myself, wrapped my hair in a towel and walked to my bed, my head throbbing, where I sat down on his side of the bed. I shook my head at my new low, admitting this was not one of my finer moments. Utterly depleted, I unwrapped my wet hair, tossed the towel on the floor and slid naked under the sheets, going to bed for the night. It was 4:45 in the afternoon.

I woke up with a full body violent jerk, dreaming I was falling. I lifted my head off the pillow, listening … had I just heard the harp text tone? Was that him? I took my phone, swiping it open, finding he had texted me. It was 11:30 pm. “Just making sure you’re ok. I was thinking about you,” he wrote. “I’m fine. How are you? Why are you up so late?” I answered, my stomach doing somersaults. “I’m down the shore, winterizing the boat. It was a long day. I wanted to check on you,” he said. “Oh … I decorated my porch for Fall, a little later than usual, for me.” I wrote. He answered, “I bet it’s perfect. You do know how to decorate for a holiday.” “Please let me call you,” I responded, with my heart in my throat. “I’m tired. Not now.” He answered. I tapped the phone icon next to his name and it rang. And rang. I called again and it rang once, then straight to voicemail. He rejected my call. I furrowed my eyebrows. Why won’t he answer? The harp chimed and I read his text. “It’s late, I want to sleep. We’ll talk another time.” “Why won’t you answer?” I asked. “Tired. I have to go. Night.” I called again. And again and again. “Oh, is your girlfriend laying next to you? Is that why you won’t answer? You waited until she fell asleep to text me? You have your phone on silent so she doesn’t hear it?” I was spiraling and hating myself for it. He answered, “I have no girlfriend, nobody here. I’m tired. I don’t want to fight. I was only checking on you and if this is how the conversations will go, then I won’t check on you anymore. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” “Why won’t you talk to me?” No answer. “You text me at 11:30 at night to ‘check on me’ but cannot speak to me on the phone because you’re too tired? Why are you playing with me like this?” No answer. “Why don’t you just knock on my door next time, and drive away before I can open the door? That’s the same thing.” No answer. “Don’t bother checking on me if you don’t really care about me. That’s mean and you know it.” I wrote. No answer. I put my phone down and buried myself beneath the blankets, hurt at yet another wave of rejection. The harp strummed next to my bed. He texted, “I care about you. That’s why I texted. If I call, you’ll cry and I need you to start healing so we can be friends again.” I called him again. No answer. “Please answer your phone. Please.” I texted. “Why won’t you talk to me? Please? I just want to hear your voice. Please.” “Shannon, I don’t want to talk. I was just reaching out. It was a mistake. You’re emotional and all over the place.” “But you contacted ME!” I argued. He responded, “This was a mistake. I’m sorry I upset you. This will never work. I’m sorry.” I stared at my phone, blinking a few times, trying to make sense of what just happened. Nothing about any of the events of these last weeks made any sense and were so out of character for him. It was as if he unzipped his skin and walked out of it and a stranger stepped in. I picked up my phone and texted him one more time. “If you don’t want to be with me like we were before, then don’t check on me. Don’t bother me. I don’t want to be your friend. Don’t insult me with such an offer.”

To be continued.