The Blank Page

The blank page was mocking me. I had not been able to write for 375 days now, an entire year and ten days. Now I would sit down with a fresh piece of paper with a brand new Bic blue pen clenched in my fingers or sit at my laptop with a blank document open. And each and every time I would spend an hour or more just staring own at the paper or at the flashing cursor hoping that the words would come to me, but not able to untangle them from my brain. 

Before I had no trouble with writing. In fact, writing was a complusion. I could not not write then. It didn't matter what I was doing, or what materials I had at my disposal. When an idea struck me, I just had to get it down on paper. Receipts, napkins, even the margins of newspapers or books were filled with my scribbles. People couldn't text me anymore as whenever I found myself paperless or penless I would type out cryptic texts to myself so I would never forget an idea. I was afraid. I was afraid that if I didn't write down an idea that it would be lost forever. And then something terrible would happen. It would be the last great idea I'd ever have and it would be lost forever.

I wrote Greg out of my life. Literally. One day I sat down at my laptop with an idea and didn't put down my laptop for three days. At some point during that writing spree Greg packed up his clothes, his toiletries, his stereo and 1,000 record collection. His guitar. He mentioned something about me going on a beer run. Something I know now seemed odd as Greg did not drink. I drank. But Greg never went on a beer run for me, insisting that if I really needed alcohol to fuel my creative mind that I would have to stop writing long enough to buy the beer/wine/vodka myself.  But he told me that he was going on a beer run and I absently smiled and thanked him and didn't think at all. When my brain finally rested, and I was able to shut down my laptop I wandered around our apartment, looking for Greg and all I was faced with was the lack of Greg in each room. Even before I found his note, taped to the bathroom mirror I knew. I rescued the note, and read it silently...for once not checking the back of the paper first to see if I could use it to write. 

Anna, it read.

I love you. But you need help. I've tried to hang on, to help you but it's not working anymore. I have to leave.

Greg signed it with love but I could not remember the last time he verbally told me that he loved me. I could not recall the last time I told him I loved him. I wasn't sure if it was true on either of our parts. The worst part. I could not cry about it. I could not cry over our lost love and I even worse, I could not cry over Greg leaving. I was expecting it; he had been begging for me to stop the words and have a normal life and I refused. I was too stubborn, too scared. Too everything. Too convinced that one day I'd be able to take control again.

My cell phone buzzes, telling me I have a notification. Instead of looking at the display screen I check the time on my computer. It was time. I push back from the blank document on my computer and go into the kitchen where I fill a glass at the sink and reach into the cabinet for the medicine bottle. 

It's been 375 days. Greg is still gone and now the words are gone as well.