So, it's been thirty seven days. I'd like to say I've been frantic with the business of living, with rebuilding my life into something enjoyable, meaningful, or at the very least just full. Instead I've been miserable for three weeks weaning myself off oxycodone, going opiate-free was the brilliant idea of my shrink. He believes I'm avoiding pain, and he's right, damn him. Of course I'm avoiding pain, physical and emotional, who wouldn't, given the choice? So he suggested stopping painkillers and, to add lemon juice to the papercut of my physical pain, insisted I choose between attending a wedding or a christening. I've been avoiding invitations all year, disposing of embossed envelopes without opening them, but apparently it's acceptable to send wedding invitations via email now, which makes it harder to spot the embossing, the virtual rose petals and overused italics that seem to feature heavily in the invitation market. I chose the wedding, for obvious reasons - I can take a plus one, getting outrageously drunk isn't as frowned upon, and there's no danger of being asked to hold a baby. Unfortunately I've been asked to make a toast, I used to be funny, occasionally charming, good at that sort of thing provided I was given a little notice. Now...now I'm not so sure. I can't imagine standing up in front of everyone without her to look at in the crowd, I used to practise beforehand, a dry run of the speech without the jokes, it would sound so disjointed that she'd be in fits of laughter anyway. And after the speech was done she'd hold my hands to stop them shaking (I'm a tragically nervous public speaker) and tell me quietly that she preferred the earlier version. Ever the critic.
So I need to prepare a speech, dig a suit out of my still-packed boxes, and find a plus one who knows what happened and why everyone will be staring at them. I imagine, for some reason, that everyone will judge me if I take a date. As though it hasn't been nearly a year, as though friends won't be glad that I've finally moved on a bit and stopped my endless whining. I can't really imagine doing the wedding thing with anyone else. We used to have a fine time, especially when people started regaling us with tales of never-ending wedding planning; entire years devoted to making sure that one day is perfect, and the tens of thousands of pounds that they spent. The first wedding we went to, almost a year after ours, was unbelievable - stately home, colour scheme, hundreds of guests, giant reception, the whole deal. I have pictures, group shots, and we stick out like scruffy, tanned sore thumbs. My suit doesn't fit, her dress is brand new, totally at odds with sun-faded bracelets, and high heels reveal sandal tan lines on her feet. We'd only arrived in the country two days before, still jet-lagged, the entire weekend was overwhelming. Cutlery and table cloths, dressing for dinners, speeches and toasts, and what felt like herds of people. The bride kept laughing that she should have eloped and saved all the bother; she about cried when Lena told her that our wedding took two weeks to plan, cost twenty five pounds and was over in about as many minutes.
I try not to think about whether I'm getting over things as fast as I should be, but it's inevitable. I wonder how other people do after something like this, whether nearly a year later, they still aren't quite right. Still aren't nearly back to themselves, still haven't...I don't know, the phrase is "moved on" but I'm not entirely sure what that means. I hope it doesn't mean forgetting.
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