December 23–31, 2003 — It sure was a night

Christmas was difficult. I’d been so upset for so long that I hadn’t been eating very much. I hadn’t weighed so little since middle school, and I was a fair bit shorter nine years ago.

My family always makes fun of me for being too thin, but it was a lot harder to take when I really had been losing weight. I forced myself to eat despite jokes about me planning to throw my food up afterward. I’m not sure if I gained weight over Christmas because I’d been weighing myself on the scale at E        ’s house, but I think I must have: I ate as much in two days at home as I had the week before in Toronto.

E         and I emailed back and forth a bit while I was in Ottawa, but she had mostly stopped replying by the end. I divided my time between reading, watching movies and trying to forget.

I didn’t see anyone aside from my family while I was in Ottawa, and I was back in Toronto by December 26.

I talked to Trisha on most days after that, and we started making plans for New Year’s Eve. I had joked about staying home curled up in a ball and listening to Joy Division, but I promised Trisha I would do something with her instead. Through this, she tolerated my frequent phone calls and must have been very sick of telling me that there was in fact a chance I could one day be happy again.

And so I owe Trisha a lot.

One night that week I put every trace of E         I could find into a box filled with similar memories. I took her pictures off of my bulletin board and put back the one of Avril Lavigne. I took her pictures and the notes she’d written me out of my wallet. It all went into the box. I’m sure I’ll find other reminders of her, but the ones I would see every day are gone.

After getting ready for bed, I took the pillowcase off of her pillow and put it with the rest of my laundry. I put the pillow back in my closet.

Then I lied and told myself there was no ending more permanent than that.