Listening to The National’s “Slow Show” While Walking Alone in Northeast DC, Valentine’s Day 2019

And while everyone tells you not to fight it alone,
you sometimes have to.

“You know I dreamed about you for 29 years before I saw you.
You know I dreamed about you. I missed you for, for 29 years.”

The line comes on when you’re crossing the street,
(that fucking line, it used to be your favorite,)
a quick punch in the gut,
a swift kick in the dick,
when you’re just yards away from the dog park.
You could listen to what comes next on shuffle,
but you don’t.
“I deserve this,”
you think or actually say out loud.
“I did this to myself.”
And then you do what you do so often after work:
Watch the dogs play for a few minutes,
trying your best not to look like that creepy guy,
who is so alone and lonely
(the two are not mutually exclusive)
that he comes to dog runs by himself,
without even the company of a fucking dog.

“Is he going to try and dognap one of these canines?”
you worry other people are saying or thinking.
You’re always worrying about what other people are saying or thinking.
“We better keep any eye on that dude.”
“Why can’t we just watch our dogs play in peace?”
“Also, he looks like he is about to cry.”
“Who the fuck cries at a dog park?”
“Maybe he just lost a dog?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But something seems off.”
“He definitely lost something.”
“Or gave it away.”

You were 29 and she was 27.
But she was only about a month or so from her birthday.
You were a month or so from your first real breakdown.
Zoloft was the complete opposite of your drug of choice,
(like seriously, it made you want to die — no joke)
and timing was never your strong suit.
So between trying to stay alive and,
well, that was pretty much it,
melodramatic as it sounds,
you figured trying to date was a little bit too much to handle.
She said it wasn’t up to you what she could and could not cope with,
but you disappeared anyway.

Because here’s the thing:
When you’re sick,
you still feel somewhat accountable for the feelings of others,
if they’re even remotely close to you.
And while everyone tells you not to fight it alone,
you sometimes have to.

Then taking advantage of true second chances,
when others were gracious enough to give them?
Turns out that also was not a strength.
Instead you waste a year of her life.
And now you are a long way from Brooklyn.

You might dream about her for the next 29 years.
Maybe you’ll miss her for 29 more.
And you’ll never meet someone at 29 ever again.

“I suppose it’s time I get a fucking dog,” you think.
And the song ends.