the recovery space

I thought I lost the water bottle you gave me for my birthday in 2015.

I use it every day and it does its job really well, keeping the temperature of whatever beverage it holds consistent, whether it be hot or cold. The great quality is not surprising -- you’ve always been a stickler for getting the very best of anything, of course, falling within the realm of practicality and value for money.

I use it every day, bringing it to the office with me and since I started doing Crossfit, I would bring it there as well. And I mention the latter because this is where I thought I lost the perfect water bottle, one of the only few remaining reminders that you set foot on my track and I on yours.

So as I was trying hard not to die to participate, I left the water bottle on the floor as I normally would. When I went back for it, it wasn’t there anymore. Of course, I didn’t panic. Maybe I just forgot where I left it so I circled around the box, looking for that black cylinder with sticker that says “The Weekend Movement.”

There wasn’t much space to really look around in, and after doing a double take, I just gave up and hoped that someone would see it and return it to the receptionist, just like any normal do-gooder would. I alerted the receptionist, letting her know how it looked like, and hoped that after everything gets cleaned up, they’ll find my missing water bottle.

That was Thursday night.

I went back on Friday because I just wanted to know if it was there. If it was there, someone would have surrendered it by then. If it wasn’t, then I thought, someone must have stolen or grabbed it by mistake, or I don’t know, it could also be one of the mysterious disappearances that we all know so well.

It wasn’t there. So I ordered a new one on Amazon. The exact same bottle, exact same specs, except this one wasn’t from you.

This new one wouldn’t bear the weight of our year-long relationship that blossomed in the prettiest colors of Spring, but unfortunately surrendered to the inevitable harshness of winter. The new one would be something that wasn’t from you; I thought, this was my sign to really just let it go.

Because I read into signs like that, taking every mundane coincidence and thinking maybe, just maybe, this is showing me something I wanna see.

Monday came, and Amazon informed me my order was set to be delivered around 8:30pm. I’m a little excited; I’m finally not devoid of a water bottle and I can help save mother nature by lessening the usage of disposable cups. Also, I just wanted to go back to normal, and normal for me meant having the water bottle within a close radius most of the time.

After work, I went to Crossfit, telling myself that this was the last day I’ll have to drink from the fountain instead of filling out a water bottle. And alas, it was but for a reason different from my expectations.

Because as I looked over the front desk, there it was. Everything was intact, in all its metallic glory. I grabbed it, knowingly showing a little too much excitement as I got something back that I thought was lost forever. The receptionist didn’t even remember that I told her to look out for it, but whatever. Nothing else mattered.

I got my water bottle back. And when I walked out of the Crossfit box with it, I realized, I suddenly wished I didn’t. Because I knew how my head worked; I knew my head would tell me that this is a symbolism, that this is reaffirming me about something I really should stop wrapping my head around.

-

It’s been roughly four months, and within that timeframe, I’ve travelled to four countries, including going back home to the Philippines, and been through two different jobs after my long break.

I’ve reconnected and disconnected with friends, spent precious time with my family, and I really focused on discovering who I am without anyone by my side.

And now, I feel great most of the time. 

I went from bawling my eyes out every day and idealizing the afterlife to finding jobs in recognized signature brands in the fashion industry, and starting to really focus on myself and my goals.

I went from crazy ex-boyfriend begging for another chance to just about being able to control my emotions. Most of the time, at least.

I used to hate routine, but I’ve developed an addiction for it now. 

Wake up at 6:15, take care of business in the bathroom, get dressed, cook my breakfast of 5 egg whites and a yolk, concoct my protein smoothie in the blender, eat, clean up, and leave the apartment around 7:45. 

Get to work earlier than is required, drink coffee, work, work, work, eat my healthy lunch, work, work, work, walk to Crossfit gym, try not to die, shower, and get home around 8:30pm. 

Have dinner, put stuff on my face, drink fishoil and collagen supplements, and call it a day.

Repeat the next day.

I feel like a well-oiled machine when I’m able to carry out this unwritten manual in my head, and when something pops up that messes with it, I tend to feel a little discomfort. I even started to hate weekends a little because I wouldn’t know what to do, and the spontaneity would give me a bit of anxiety.

It’s been good, really.

I try to tell myself that, and that’s because, there is some truth to it.

I’ve picked myself from the ground where I was once too weak to stand up from. I’ve started to go back to a steady pace of setting goals and creeping up to slowly achieving them. And I’ve new friends to keep me company in this country that tries hard to be my home.

I’ve distanced myself from conversations that harness negativity, going so far as blocking people or avoiding social media altogether to sort of cleanse myself from the hustle and bustle of the digital age. Until now, I only keep Facebook messenger on my phone. If I wanted to use Facebook, I’m gonna have to be on my laptop. It’s good practice, and it’s one way of decluttering your thoughts and getting to really know what matters to you.

I’ve taken a meditation class in a Buddhist temple somewhere in Jersey. Drove to DC with friends, and had a blast. Went to a concert alone, and planning to go to a music festival alone -- the latter could change depending on my friend’s decision.

-

But anyway, I’ve gone over and beyond the textbook definition of moving on. Except maybe, I’ve skipped a very important chapter: TIME.

I had a mini panic attack when I saw your dating profile somewhere. I mean, yes, we’ve broken up. And slowly, I felt the chains that linked us slowly disintegrate until there is nothing left but a subtle, thin thread. I’ve lived a life without you, and I know it is possible. 

But every time I see something that blatantly reminds me of that fact, of the fact that I will live in a world where there is no longer you and I, where there is only I and there is you, but never on the same spectrum, I still cannot help but feel a void.

It’s not as strong as before. It’s more like a gentle tug now. But it’s still here.

And I know it will be here for a while. 

And for now, I guess I’ll just have to keep making myself feel accomplished by being a well-oiled machine, until I start getting back the wholeness of my humanity.

Until I learn to fully love myself again.

Every wound heals differently. And I don’t know about you, but mine takes a while. And I have to constantly tell myself that it’s okay.

--

Really though, I wish I lost it.