Page 3 of Both Sides Now

But slowly, over the last million months, I’ve started adapting to my new normal. One thing is for certain: I hate that term with a passion. There’s nothing normal about spending your life alone when you originally planned to spend it with the man of your dreams.

It’s not like I kicked Charlie to the curb, eager for an upgrade.

He was my everything. I fell in love with him the first time our eyes locked across the pub, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

Less than one second to realize the massive role this man would play in my life.

Even Shawn recognized our connection for what it was. True love. Poetic and unapologetic true love.

It’s the kind of love which happens once in a lifetime, and only then if you’re paying attention. But we didn’t get a lifetime. Nowhere near it. My Charlie, my reason for living, was stolen from me at the age of thirty-five.

Yet in a cruel twist of fate, my life, if you dare to call it that, plods along.

Some days I search my reflection in the bathroom mirror, desperate for a small glimpse of the woman I once knew. My face is still recognizable to those on the outside, but I don’t know this stranger staring back at me. I don’t know her dead eyes or flat affect.

Where did my glow go? Where is the spark of life I once held so precious?

All I know—all I feel—is the unrelenting weight of my pain, along with a lingering guilt that God got it wrong. There was a mixup in the paperwork and Charlie should still be here, living his best life, while my body becomes worm food.

I’ll never understand, even if God granted me a personal audience, how he allowed such a mistake to occur. If given the option, I’d gladly switch places with Charlie and take my rightful spot in the cemetery, kicking up daisies.

But there is no option. And because of that, God and I are no longer on speaking terms. He’s on the top of my shit list and no amount of miracles will changethatlineup.

I’m on anti-depressants. Fairly standard, really, for someone in my situation. No joke, that’s how my doctor termed it. I damn near slapped his face to the other side of his head.

There’s nothingstandardabout my situation. Or my life, at this point. Although, referring to it as a life is a bit of a stretch.

How can I be categorized as living when I’m dead inside?

Guess the anti-depressants aren’t doing their job. I’d fire the bastards, but who am I to judge?

I’m also the world’sworstbusiness owner, at this juncture.

My wellness center, once a point of utmost pride, has been relegated to the trash heap, right along with my happiness.

I’m blessed to have the greatest employees on the planet. They rose to the challenge and took over my classes. My client load. My bookkeeping. My marketing.

Lord knows I wasn’t able to do it. And they never complained, but in recent months, there’s been murmuring amongst the ranks.

Whispers that grow louder with each passing day. Despite rarely leaving my house, I hear them.

One day, I dared to enter the wellness center without notice and discovered I was the topic of conversation. Even though they had no clue I was standing not two feet from them, they spoke in hushed tones, as if fearful of waking the grief-stricken beast.

Is Callista ever coming back?

It’s been almost two years.

The poor woman. I heard she had a nervous breakdown.

The last comment was the last straw. No, I’m not well. I suffered a slow and torturous emotional execution, one that started years before Charlie’s death. Every day, I watched thelove of my life slip from my grasp, no matter how I clung to him.

No amount of love could save him. Trust me, I tried.

So, to hear my employees mumbling about my mental status when the worst they’d seen in life was a morning-after walk of shame, was more than I could handle.

I huffed out a breath and spoke with a voice that could only be described as bullets flying from my mouth.

“Perhaps I should be thankful he’s gone? Grateful my life is once again my own and I’m not stuck caring for a dying man? Would that be more acceptable to you?”

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