Seeing Gratitude Through Pink Puffy Eyes

It’s funny how the smallest of things can trigger an onslaught of unfinished feelings, unsaid words, and unheard thoughts: a tidal wave of emotions.

Only moments ago, I was, characteristically, putting off everything I needed to do by scrolling through the endless posts on Facebook. One of the pictures that appeared on my screen was from my school’s page, which showed a dear friend of mine with our interim Head of School at the final send off before everyone leaves for college. It was in that single second when I saw them together that I realized this was a sight I would no longer see regularly.

Instead of seeing my friends talking with teachers or other students in the hallways, or at lunch, or just randomly throughout the day, I would only see them on holidays.

No more laughing with each other on our way to class.

No more trying NOT to laugh at each other in assembly.

No more normal.

The thing is, I knew this was coming. It’s not like one day they all just woke up and said “ok we’re going to leave now, bye!”. This has been years in the making.

Perhaps, that’s what makes this so hard to swallow. Everything we’ve done together for the past 365 days I’ve quietly thought “oh, a year from now it will all be different…”.

Now, that year is rapidly coming to a close. In two days time, everyone will be gone. Only a phone call away, sure, but also no longer just a quick drive across the neighborhood either.

It’s like I said, it’s the little moments that get us. Our last football game cheering side by side, I was fine. Their graduation, fine. The “last supper”, absolutely and completely fine. Today, when the house was silent. The friends had all gone. And the pictures were all I felt like I had left, I was NOT fine.

I don’t cry. It’s not that I can’t, and I’m sure crying would have made sense in this moment, it’s just not something I enjoy doing. Rather than getting the rush of relief or peace that everyone seems to feel after bawling their eyes out, I instead get a dizzying headache, pink puffy eyes, and feel numb to everything around me.

It’s surprising I didn’t cry at this tiny moment of sad realization that my normal life was ending. I instead just didn’t know what to do next. I felt alone for the first time in as long as I could remember.

Why, did it appear, that I felt more sad over these friends leaving, than anyone else around me did? Was it because all of my friends were leaving at once? Was it because I had shoved aside my fear of being alone until it was too late? Or was it in fact because I had known that this was coming for so long, and had somehow over prepared?

One of my favorite poets is Lang Leav, who in one of her most notable works, Until It’s Gone, answers my question best by saying:

Some people don’t know what they have until it’s gone. 

But what about the ones who do know? The ones who never took one thing for granted? 

Who tried their hardest to hold on, 

yet could only look on helplessly while they lost the thing they loved the most. 

Is’t it so much worse for them?

                                                                                 Leav, Until It’s Gone

***

Flash forward two days, and I’m sitting in Noshville with the last remaining friends in 615. Those three girls who sat with me in the back booth beside the window were just hours away from leaving dear old Nashvegas for their next great adventure… just hours away from leaving me as well. Somehow those two blissful hours vanished before my eyes, just as this entire year prior had.

Suddenly, it felt like time continued to move on, all the while I simply watched helpless from the side, as if I was in a dream. I went from sitting beside my best friend drying her tears with my napkin, to hugging each girl as tight as I could in the middle of the parking lot, to sitting in my car watching the last of my best friends, and what seemed to me my old, happy, normal life, drive away.

Of course, with my luck, and fittingly with the mood of the moment, Nashville’s summer weather didn’t disappoint and brought on a sudden monsoon. Despite having my convertible top down, I just sat there, and let the rain pour in.

I let the rain fall simultaneously with the tears from my eyes.

Honestly, it was quite soothing to say the least. I felt as if I was being reminded that sometimes even the sky has to cry, and in that moment, it was as though she was sympathizing with me. The soft mid-morning drops seemed to cool my fiery red cheeks, and my puffy pink eyes.
Of course, by the time my mind caught up to real time, and I was able to push the button to pull up my top, I was already sitting in a puddle, which was made up of 50% rain water, and 50% tears.
For the first time, I found the peace that follows the cry that people talk about so endearingly. It was indeed worth the running mascara stains and puffy pink eyes

I have come to decide that I believe heartache is worse for those who know that change is coming for them. But that’s the thing about life, change is the only constant in our world. It’s not how much or how little change we experience that affects us, but rather how we choose to see it, prepare for it, and handle it.
I chose to see this day coming for years, but only began to realize it’s impact days before it came.
I chose to acknowledge each passing day’s importance, but found myself only beginning to feel their worth after they had gone.
And instead of taking pity on myself for a loss of my “normal”, I will thank God for every day I got to have a normal. 

How lucky am I to have something that made saying goodbye so hard?

How lucky am I to have pink puffy eyes?