#why didn’t I try harder to clarify so that there were no miscommunication issues?

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[glee-otis]

WEEK 4

4. ADJACENT PHENOMENA. WHAT IS HAPPENING. WHO

My train of thought has led me to these adjacent phenomena: 

1.  Etymology:  Through the researches I have been doing, I felt like I was re-learning language, and how to utilize it in an empathetic manner. As someone who always struggled to communicate my thoughts, this research was a whole new level of difficulty. Also the blog posts taught me that when I spoke about a sensitive matter, I needed to explain ideas tailored to each audience group. 

2. Clarification and Empathy However, even after explanation, some interpreted differently. I think the important thing to do here is clarify and try to come to an understanding on both ends instead of walking away from it. When people fight, the reason why it festers and builds is due to misunderstanding and miscommunications. As mentioned in my previous post, when we use wrong analogies to communicate an idea, that becomes problematic. Maybe clarification means explaining more deeply than comparing. Because stigma itself is caused by comparing one group to another. 

3. Fear of...  Another reason why mental illness and physical disability is stigmatized may be due to fear. But fear of what? Maybe people are projecting their insecurities onto others. Maybe people just fear what they don’t understand. Or maybe they don’t want to come off ignorant so they don’t dig into these topics, and jump to assumptions. Maybe this is the vicious cycle of stigma. 

4. Social, political, and economic issues These 3 issues are another adjacent to the psychology of mental and physical disability stigmas.  Social: The way media represents and romanticizes these concerns start creating harmful stereotypes. It enables society to act and treat people in a certain way.  Political/Economic Issues: A health care system is available, but the benefits differ for mental health and physical health. Sometimes, one may be harder than the other to get. Due to this issue, it starts becoming an economical issue. Does this mean people who can’t afford both services, need to pick and choose one or the other? This topic will tie into my next adjacent phenomena. 

5. Doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists I read an article about someone who had a spinal muscular atrophy and she began having suicidal ideations. But when she went to get help for her mental health, someone said, “Oh, well, it’s a good thing you can’t commit suicide anyway, right?” Also, she explained how the doctors assumed she didn’t need help for her mental health due to her physical disability. The same issue arises, mentioned in number 2. We should clearly identify the two as different ideas. A lot of things I hear ( in regards to mental illness) from psychologists, psychiatrists, and doctors are that people should take medication (and are “pressured” to), because if you had diabetes you would take medication for that. Mental illness may be a chemical imbalance in the brain, but it is so much more than chemical imbalance majority of the times. Medication could simply be a means to numb the pain and get patients hooked on a “non-addictive” medication. I understand why the analogies are used, but mental illness does not have a long history of being addressed. So maybe more data is needed before it gets “clumped” together with another disability or illness. Also, when I looked up definitions for mental health/mental illness there were several definitions, which brings me back to number 1. 

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

Part VI - The Untimely Downfall of Strangers

Harry’s POV

THEN - Day 1169

I felt my knuckles hit her door three times--one for the day that I loved her, two for the day I knew it, and three for the day I knew it was over. It felt like I was floating, like time was simply a figment of my imagination and like the words we’d said over the last few years had somehow ended up in a trash bin down the street.

She opened the door to her hotel room--the one that she’d gotten for herself because, for some reason, she couldn’t bear to be close to me. Her eyes looked sad and her shoulders looked slumped, the look on her face told me more than her words ever could.

Something was terribly wrong with her--something was hurting her and putting distance between us faster than I could even realize it was happening. She wasn’t the person I’d met at the end of the summer three years back. But now it felt like I didn’t really know who she was.

I had tried to ask her--beg her, really--to tell me. To talk to me. To yell at me. Anything felt better than the silence that ensued every time I tried to hold her hand or kiss her forehead. Anything would have sounded better than hearing the words ‘I’m fine’ come out of her mouth.

She didn’t say anything--she looked up at me with her big blue eyes and the dark hair that usually draped around her face. It was pulled up behind her head, the sleeves of the sweatshirt she wore came down past her hands. She stepped aside, silently ushering me into her clean and ordered room.

The first few steps felt awkward. Where did I go? What did I say? Was there anything I could do? I doubted she had the answers, but the questions pulsed through me anyway. Margot made her way over to the couch and sat. I realized, as I waited for her to speak, that I was angry.

I was mad that she’d let it get this bad, mad that she’d waited this long to tell me that something was wrong, that this wasn’t working, that she didn’t love me. That’s how it seemed, at least.

It felt like a century passed--she looked at the ground and then at me and then at the ground again. I watched her silently, like I so often did, and wondered what was on her mind.

“You can’t do this, can you?” I asked, my voice low and pained and hesitant.

She watched me for a second--frozen as if she hadn’t expected me to cut right to it. But she had to understand, we’d been avoiding reality for months. We’d danced around the actual issue and shoved it deeper and deeper down. We acted like we were as happy as the magazines portrayed--like we were as energized and relaxed and thrilled as we looked on TV.

When she shook her head I had to look away, simply out of fear that the emotion in my eyes would come across as pathetic.

“So that’s it?” I asked, my arms crossed over my chest, likely sending the message that I was mad rather than upset. “We’re just quitting--no reason, no explanation? Just because you’re--” I stopped. I knew the word would make her angry, I knew she’d disagree, I knew it would start a fight. It always did.

“I’m what?” She challenged quickly, her eyes seemed to darken.

I decided to say it anyway. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not sick,” she shot back.

I rolled my eyes, which probably only poured more fuel on the fire. She wasn’t sick, maybe not physically. But mentally, emotionally, something was off. It was gradual, really. it wasn’t like she woke up one day and something had changed. It grew inside of her, feeding off of whatever dark thoughts she had, waiting to take over her and waiting to strike whenever it could.

I didn’t know if you call it depression or mental illness or what--but whatever it was took my girlfriend and turned her into someone I wish I could save.

She’d told me early on that sometimes she felt nervous, upset, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on it. She told me that years of being on TV and years of being on stage would do that--but I didn’t quite believe her. I watched her go from being angry backstage at me for a miscommunication about my flight to smiling on a jumbotron as if nothing had happened.

I saw her choke back tears and just get on with it because she had a responsibility to her fans, to her team, to me, to herself. And after seven years of that you get tired. I understood. I only lasted five.

So, was she sick in a way that most people would understand? No.

“You won’t accept help,” I clarified.

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes, Margot. You do.”

She stared at me for a minute--her eyes seemed to search and process the words I’d said. She looked scared and angry and sad all at once, and I wish I knew what to say. I wish I could just tell her I loved her, but that didn’t seem to do it anymore.

She sat like that for a second, staring off into space. She looked like she wasn’t all there, like the usual smile and color in her eyes had faded and been buried deep behind the sadness she carried.

Maybe I couldn’t make her love me--maybe I couldn’t make her take care of herself, but I could say how I felt. If I couldn’t help her and love her enough to get rid of the sadness, the least I could do was help her realize that she wasn’t herself.

I walked to stand next to her, keeping my eyes on her face. “You can leave me, and you can end this,” I paused, feeling extremely disconnected from the words I was saying.  “But you need to get help. Okay?”

She didn’t look up, she didn’t even flinch. I think she’d gotten so used to tuning me out--tuning everyone out--that my words fluttered past her like a meaningless sound.

“Okay.”

I let out a breath, wondering how on earth I’d gone from thinking this was the girl I’d marry to wondering who she even was. At 18 she was the girl who made me feel like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. At 19 she was the person who listened to me cry on the phone when we were oceans apart. At 20 she was the one who understood my pain. But now, at 21, she was a cold statue that took two steps away for every one step I took towards her.

I was angry--I was mad at her for letting it be like this, but I was also mad at myself. I wish I could have done something sooner, I wish I could have helped, known the right thing to say, or even just said one word that made her feel somewhat whole.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and she finally lifted her eyes to meet mine, but it only lasted for a second. I didn’t know what I was sorry for--maybe for the fact that I couldn’t try any harder than I already was. I swallowed the tears that stung my eyes. “I love you, y’know.” She nodded. She knew that.

I was hopeful for a second--hopeful that she’d say it back. Hopeful that I’d wake up from this nightmare and hopeful that we could undo the past. But I knew it was too good to be true. All hope had been lost.

“Say something,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes were empty when they met mine once again, she forced a small smile. “Harry,” she said my name in a sigh. “I think you should go.”

The words cracked me open, all the breath left my body at once as if she’d stolen the life right out of me. In a way, I guess, she had. I waited for a second, hoping she’d say something more. Hoping she’d change her mind. I knew I couldn’t force her hand.

I nodded in response to her silence--I’d grown used to it. I licked my lips, the taste of the salt on my cheeks reminded me that this was real. I didn’t know what to do, my feet didn’t know how to move, but I knew they had to. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She didn’t even move.

THEN - Day 1225

My fingers plunked down on the piano, playing the same chord I’d been playing for the last three minutes. There was nothing there.

It was moments like these where I wondered what she was doing. I wondered where she was, how she felt, what she thought. Niall had tried to tell me a few things that she’d said to him--he always seemed to tow the line of loyalty. He should have been loyal to me, but I knew he’d choose her first. She was the sister he never had.

I knew she went somewhere. I knew she spent a month somewhere. Rehab--Niall had said. ‘Rehab for what?’ I’d asked. He simply shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. ‘Dunno--bein’ so sad, I guess.’

That was what I wanted--I wanted her to go somewhere and get the therapy and the help she needed. I didn’t know they’d call it rehab--I could almost imagine her rolling her eyes when she heard that.

The leaves on the trees outside seemed to turn inside out, which someone in the village had told me was a sign that a thunderstorm was coming. I wished it would--it almost felt like it’d wash away my feelings with it.

I’d never really been depressed. Sure, a few heart breaks in school and whatnot, and this was probably nothing compared to how Margot seemed to feel every day, but I was thankful for the fact that the people I was with--the people pulling me together enough to make an album--seemed to understand.

At first I thought it was too soon. I tried to write in London and nothing came out. I tried to strum a few chords or plunk a few notes, but the well was dry. So I decided I needed a change of scenery. I heard Jamaica was nice in the summer.

The warmth was nice, the beach was nice. The alcohol that we drank daily took a little bit of the sting away from the inevitable thoughts that led back to the beginning and back to the middle and back to the end. The thoughts always led back to her.

The d-sharp sounded boring to my ears. I sang over it quietly anyway. “Maybe one day you’ll call me.” Just the one phrase was enough to stir emotion in me so strong that I had to blink it out of my eyes. I pushed myself back from the piano--the legs of the bed scratched against the floor.

I guess I knew it was coming. That seemed to be what people asked me most--my mother, my sister, my friends. They all wanted to know if I knew it would happen and why I didn’t try to do anything more.

But what was I supposed to do? What on earth would have made her tell me that she wasn’t okay? I asked and I begged and I pleaded and I cried but she would smile and lie to my face and for some reason my love wasn’t enough. Maybe it wouldn’t ever be.

At first I wondered if I should call her. I wondered what to say and how to tell her I still cared. But a few weeks went by, then a few months. I’d stare at my phone and wish that it would ring, wish that she’d be the one to reach out first. I never had the balls to press the familiar buttons and dial the familiar number. Now it was four months later and reaching out felt cold and distant and strange.

Maybe one day she’d call me. Maybe she would have something to say. Maybe one day she would say she was sorry. It seemed so unrealistic, but I could hope. Maybe.

NOW - DAY 1694

I was sat with Jeff in my living room. He’d offered to have me come to his office--some kind of air-conditioned room in a building in downtown L.A.--but I felt too freaked out to leave my house. He sat opposite me on the couch, his phone in the air as he stared down at the screen.

“I mean, I’m just going to be honest. It’s just Sinead, it’s not Margot herself.”

“I know,” I said quietly, my eyes still focusing on the framed photo of me and my dad on the end table. I figured I owed it to her to let her know it was coming. Not that she’d ever done the same for me.

I knew she’d get phone calls and interview requests and I knew what type of a media shit storm it would be for her. I figured it was the right thing to do to let her know what to expect. That’s what my mum said.

I mean, it felt weird. How did you reach out to someone you hadn’t spoken to in eighteen months and say ‘hey, I don’t know if you care, but I wrote a whole album about you and how mad I am at you. Do you want to hear it?’

I’d said that to Jeff, I’d told him how weird it felt and how I didn’t even really know if it was the right move. So we’d start with just one, he said. We’d send one song, see what she said, see how it went, and take it from there.

Jeff cleared his throat as he typed. “Hey Sinead. I’m here with Harry and he wanted me to send along this song for Margot to hear. It’s coming out tomorrow. Jeff.”

I brought my eyes to his--he was patiently watching me, waiting to see if I’d approve. I nodded, watched as his thumb hit the send button, and then I closed my eyes.

I had no idea what she’d think. I had no idea how she’d feel. I had ten songs that she’d hear and think about and most of them made her sound like a twat. That wasn’t necessarily my intention, at first, hey, write what you feel, they say.

Each song had a bit of our story in one way or another. The story that I’d retold so many times. The story that I’d written and talked about and cried over. That story wasn’t going to be just ours anymore.

I’d thought for a long time about it. When I first started writing I was really just processing. I was thinking and feeling and recounting all of the things that had happened and how they made me feel. But they became more real, more polished, and we started to piece together a few that seemed to stick together, a few that told the story and somehow made the sadness not as bad.

It felt like if I couldn’t have her, at least I could have a story in the form of a melody. Ten songs that seemed to tell everything from beginning to end, ten songs that made it not hurt as much.

I didn’t know if she’d even respond. Sinead might reply and let me know she’d pass it along. I had no clue what to expect and it seemed like having no expectations was probably for the better.

I’d spent the majority of the time since she left being a strange mix of angry and hurt. There were days when I wished I could call her up and scream at her--days I wished I could tell her how mean and selfish and shitty she’d been. Then there were days when I wished I could hold her and tell her we’d be alright.

“I’ll let you know as soon as someone responds,” Jeff offered, his tone was quiet and cautious, as if he knew the door he’d just opened.

THEN - Day 1

Being new to L.A. and the media and the circus of it all was exciting, but getting asked to do a guest appearance on a popular TV show with Margot Jones had me somewhat nervous.

I’d made the mistake of telling Louis and Liam that I found Margot to be quite fit--and being teenagers, they naturally felt it necessary to try to embarrass me as much as they could. Being on set at a TV show was new to us--we stayed in line and did what we were told. Most of the time.

Margot was a pro. She memorized lines in seconds and didn’t seem to make many mistakes. She was friendly with the director and the PAs and she even seemed to get along with the writers. She was funny and loud and she was prettier in person than she was in magazines.

Maybe some of my attraction to her was the initial infatuation with America--her accent and her smile and the way that she laughed so loud you could hear it down the hallway. Maybe it was because we were young and stupid and hormonal. Maybe it was the purple shirt they had her in for our first scene together.

Her younger sister was a self-proclaimed huge fan, and a part of me worried that Margot would see us as just that: the boys from the pop songs her little sister played in the car. When her sister somehow managed to get us invited for dinner, I made an executive call for the entire band and decided we would attend. I couldn’t miss a chance to spend more time with her.

I was intrigued by the girl with dark hair and a warm smile, intrigued by the fact that she’d won three Grammys at the age of 17, and I was intrigued by the way she didn’t seem to care that I was just as famous as she was--well, almost.

Her brother was nice and her step dad made a mean burger. Her mom made a summer salad and Margot talked about the way the leaves changed in the fall where she grew up. She plucked at the blades of grass beneath her as we sat on the edge of her driveway.

The setting sun cast a glow over the energetic backyard--Louis tossed the basketball towards the hoop, missing terribly.

I would have married her then.

THEN - Day 1145

I almost didn’t know if it was worth it. I’d told her before--I’d told her that she needed a break, I’d told her that she wasn’t doing well. I told her she needed to tell me what was going on. But here, with the dazed look on her face and the sound of distance in her voice, I only worried that confrontational words would push her farther away from me.

So I didn’t address it.

That seemed to be the pattern we were in. It seemed like the whole world knew she wasn’t okay--the whole world knew she was sick. Sad. Depressed. Anxious. Tired. Angry. Bored. Everyone knew that something was off--but no one seemed to do anything about it.

I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare--one where I was invisible and no one could hear what I was saying. I felt like I was trying to point out the obvious, but no one took it seriously.

Our album was set for release in less than a month, I’d do promo and radio slots and talk shows. I’d be busy and on the road and she’d probably continue to waste away--the sunshine that used to be housed in her eyes was mostly a distant memory.

She sat in the living room of her parents’ house, the house I came to that first night, the house where we spent last Christmas, the house where we first had sex. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and she was quiet--which wasn’t really new.

Maya was on the couch, too. Her curly hair fell down around her shoulders, a stark contrast to her sister’s straight hair.

I looked between to the two of them--secretly hoping that Maya could feel the tension too. Maybe she’d say something, maybe Margot would take it more seriously if it came from her sixteen year old kid sister.

“Can we find something else to watch?” Maya asked, her thumbs typing wildly at her phone, she didn’t bother to look up. Margot, who was deep in thought, handed the remote to her sister and didn’t even blink.

From my spot opposite them--in the big brown armchair that Margot had gotten her mum for her birthday two years back--I watched as Maya took the remote, dropped her phone to her lap, and failed to recognize that something was terribly wrong.

I sat there, watching her and studying her, which she always said she hated. A girl who had cameras shoved in her face for the last eight years hated being watched--it made sense. But she had to understand--the more she kept from me, the less she spoke and the more secrets she had, the more I’d want to know. The more I’d ask and the more I’d wonder.

We eventually went to bed, climbing onto the mattress where she’d told me she loved me for the first time, and she finally let me touch her. She let me wrap my arms around her, and when she started to cry, the shaking of her chest against mine, the wetness of her tears on my shirt, I tried to ask why.

And that was when I realized that maybe she didn’t know.

NOW - Day 1694

I was home by myself when Jeff forwarded me the email. It wasn’t from Sinead. It wasn’t meant for Jeff. It was Margot’s email, her words, typed on my screen, no opening or salutation or anything formal. Just Margot.

It’s beautiful, I love it.

Jeff hadn’t sent along any words either, no remark on her short reply or what he thought of it. He simply forwarded the message--didn’t text, didn’t call. And now, here I sat, at the kitchen counter of a lonely house I bought from a business friend in Agoura Hills.

I’d heated up the leftovers I had from dinner last night, but the food tasted bland in my mouth now that I’d gotten a response.

Feelings stirred inside of me, feelings I couldn’t quite place or name or understand. It was heat, really. Heat in my chest and in my stomach and in my heart and certainly in my head. Maybe I didn’t think she would reply, maybe I didn’t think she’d listen to the song I wrote about what it felt like to be in love with her.

But suddenly, quickly, it was anger. It was anger in my bones and in my eyes as they started to well. It was anger when I dropped my fork against the granite counter, anger when I swallowed the tasteless food, but it wasn’t anger when I thumbed a direct response from my email this time.

Marg,

Glad you like it. Album comes out in two weeks. I think it’d be best if you hear it.

H.

I waited an hour for a response. I paced the living room and watched through the big glass windows as the rain trickled down the side of the house. Eventually she said she’d listen. I sent an email with the attachments and shut off my phone.

THEN - Day 10

I was afraid to date her at first. She was more famous than I felt like I could imagine. I knew her name before I was in the band and my sister had once read something about her net worth being over eighty million. I couldn’t even comprehend that.

But the Margot I knew and had lunch with and who liked to go to drive through fast food restaurants just for a soda--she wasn’t intimidating. She wasn’t the girl I thought she was when I walked through the doors of the studio that first morning. She wasn’t the girl on billboards and on the internet. She was a girl who seemed to swear as much as Niall and she could arguably out eat him as well.

The first time I kissed her was awkward. Mostly because it was on the couch in her living room--her brother was in the other room and her sister had gone to bed. Her parents were upstairs, too--apparently after headlining four tours, Margot had earned their trust to spend time alone with a lanky British kid.

She seemed hesitant but excited and pulled away from me with a smile on her face so wide that it looked like it hurt. The swell in my chest was unimaginable.

“I like you,” I said quietly--my voice barely above a whisper. We were under a blanket, the air conditioning in her big house seemed to combat the California heat quite well. She stared at me for a second, took a deep breath, and then smiled.

“I like you, too.”

That’s when I knew it was going to hurt.

NOW - Day 1695

I’d been off of the treadmill for no more than four seconds when my phone rang in the cup holder. I’d woken up at 4:30am, a knot in my stomach that seemed too big to ignore had my feet heading towards the kitchen to make some coffee. Now, at nearly 6:30, the only thing that felt like it would help was running another six miles.

Her name on my screen made it feel like the world stopped. My heartbeat was suddenly loud in my ears--the same contact picture I’d had for four years stared back at me through the glass. She had a bright pink One Direction t-shirt on. She had both thumbs up by her sides, a cheesy grin on her face. She was stood somewhere in a venue in St. Louis, I think.

Why was she calling me so early? Why was she awake?

“Hello?” I spoke into the phone, the sweat on my gray t-shirt made me thankful for a home gym.

She didn’t speak--it was just silence. I hoped to God that she didn’t mistakenly call me. I hoped this was real.

“Marg--y’there?”

“Hi, yeah, sorry, hi.” She said finally, her voice more a sigh than anything else. I would have asked her how she was, what she was doing awake so early, but she launched straight in.

“I listened--to the album. It’s great. I just wanted to let you know that--” another pause.

Did she hate it? Was she angry? Was I too forward in sending it and did she think I was a dick because I was mad at her?

“I liked it.” Her voice was hesitant, but she sounded sincere.

“Did you?” I asked quickly, clearing my throat to disguise any anxiety I was having. “M’glad, thank you, m’glad you listened to it.”

A few moments of silence passed. I wondered where she was--at her mom’s? Somewhere else? Was she even in L.A.? It felt too soon to ask.

I wondered if she was bothered by the way I told our story--I wondered if she cared about the fact that now people would know more details than they had before. A part of me didn’t care what she thought--a part of me just wanted to tell the truth. Or, at least, my version of it.

I wasn’t stupid enough to think that Margot didn’t have her own version to tell. I wasn’t stupid enough to think that she didn’t have her own story that replayed in her head when she dialed my number or when she listened to those songs.

I wished I could have watched her hear them. I didn’t know what to say, and really, I sort of wondered if she’d hung up. “Would you want to get coffee?” I asked quickly, the words feeling strange and foreign in my mouth.

Silence.

“Sure,” She said suddenly, the word longer than it usually was, as if she were still somewhat reluctant. “Are you in L.A.?”

I nodded, catching my reflection in the mirror on the wall. “I am. Been here since January actually--I, uh, I didn’t want to reach out until the album was done.”

It was true--I’d thought a million times about seeing her. I wondered what would happen if I showed up at her mom’s house--I wondered what would happen if I went ‘round Sinead’s. I almost wondered if she’d left L.A. altogether, she used to say she dreamed about moving back East when this was all over.

I never knew what she meant when she said “this.”

“Could you be at Geoffrey’s at one?” She asked quickly, pulling me back to the room.

The place where we met for coffee the first week we knew each other. We’d gone maybe ten times in the three years we dates. I hadn’t been back since. “In Malibu? Sure, yes, yeah. I--I’ll see you then.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

THEN - Day 1171

I hadn’t really slept and I hadn’t really eaten--which seemed to piss Liam off more than the fact that I’d pretty much gone mute. But what was there to say?

Here I was--supposed to be happy and excited for the release of the album, the upcoming hiatus, the fact that my life was pretty fucking good. But how was I supposed to be happy when she left as if it didn’t even hurt?

I had no idea where she was. I left her hotel room after it happened and walked three blocks in New York before someone recognized me. Then I went back to my hotel room and stared out the window until it was midnight.

Then I walked twenty six blocks before security found me after Niall checked Find My Friends.

Her hotel room was four doors down from mine. It was shut, locked, silent. Maybe she left.

Liam had begged me to eat some breakfast--I swallowed a bit of toast with the aid of some tea. But it immediately felt like it was going to come back up. I think the rest of them were just as shocked, but even more clueless as to what to do than I was.

I hadn’t seen it coming--I knew something was wrong. I knew she needed help. I had no idea that she wouldn’t want me to be a part of her life. She went from the girl who drunkenly told me she wanted to have my children to being someone with so much sadness in her I couldn’t do a thing to make her smile.

She didn’t even pick good timing. Right before the album released, right before I had to do a shit ton of promotion and appearances. Niall had tried to call her to find out where she was--her phone was off.

I think that’s what made me even more mad--she didn’t tell anyone. She left in the dead of night, no warning, no explanation. She left like she never even existed at all.

THEN - DAY 1304

I liked alone time--that was something new. I used to love to be with people, I always wanted friends around. I wanted to smile and laugh and feel connected to people I cared about.

Jamaica was quiet, though, and something about sitting by the pool at night--the air still warm and the water even warmer--felt tranquil.

The sounds of the night bugs and tree frogs sometimes floated up through my bedroom window--but out here I could hear them much more clearly.

Maybe it was the stark contrast of the noise I’d grown accustomed to--London, planes, crowds, concert speakers, people asking me where it all went wrong every time I stepped outside. But the quiet sounds of Jamaica felt like a safe place to stay--at least for a while.

I hadn’t spoken to her. I hadn’t heard from her. I hadn’t had any contact with anyone in her family or her circle of friends. I almost called in December when Niall said she went to rehab, but I didn’t know what to say. I wanted her to have the space she claimed she needed.

And now, April was upon me and I was on an Island with a smaller population than people who followed me on twitter. Something about that made made me want to cry.

It’d been awhile since I cried about it. I think I cried for the first three days straight, but then promo took over, then the album was out, we were in front of cameras and behind microphones. I didn’t have the time or the space or the energy, truthfully. The last six months of our relationship had drained me so much that I didn’t have a lot left.

Maybe it was all the writing--maybe the lyrics and the sounds and the fact that I thought about her every single day made the water come so readily to my eyes. Maybe the fact that I’d finally written the song brought a sense of deep pain than had been lying dormant in me for quite some time.

It took five months. I knew it was somewhere inside of me--I knew the lyrics would come eventually in a way that I could handle. Every time I sat down and tried to really get it out, it was too much. I was too angry, too sad, too annoyed. Too emotionless. Until today.

Because today, after five months, I finally figured out what I wanted the song to be.

Every time I’ve broken up with someone, which, granted, hasn’t been that much, there’s a song. Just one. You might write ten or twenty or thirty, but there was always just one that seemed to really capture the feeling. Margot and I used to talk about it. There’s one song--the one that feels more familiar than any of the others. The one that really hits you in the gut and knocks the wind out of you and leaves you somewhat speechless.

I knew I found it when I woke up with someone else in my bed this morning--someone who wasn’t Margot, someone who wasn’t the girl with long brown hair and sweet blue eyes and a smile that was contagious. I knew I needed to write it when her name almost floated out of my mouth, caught in my throat when the sleeping girl from a resort downtown shifted in my sheets.

I was surprised that I hadn’t drunkenly called Margot--based on the amount of alcohol I’d consumed the night before. But I guess--for now, finding a girl who resembled her in the dark was good enough.