[ WP ] I spent my days learning to feel less , until one day I felt nothing at all .

It took six months until I was able to go outside again. My friends and family worried about me, but no one could figure out what to do. I spent my days sleeping, because I spent my nights crying in the darkness of my bedroom, alone. 
 
 She left me. I'd spent seven years giving my all to her. I did anything I could for her. I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with this woman. No one had ever made me as happy as she had. Maybe that's why it hurt so much when she was gone. Maybe that's why I just could n't seem to get over her. I had sacrificed so much. I had given everything I had, and she'd taken it all and left with it. 
 
 Finally, on a rainy evening, I came out of my room. I had lost thirty pounds. I was sporting a beard that had n't been there the last time anybody had seen me. We went out to a local sports bar. Everybody had a few drinks, shared some jokes, told lies of their latest conquests. Some of my friends even jumped into the subject of setting me up with a girl they knew would be perfect for me. I smiled, I laughed, I played along. As far as anybody could tell, things were starting to take a turn for the better. 
 
 I spent the next few weeks burying myself in anything and everything I could to keep my mind occupied. Hobbies, work, spending time with friends. Anything that could let me try to forget the hurt. Nothing seemed to be working, but I could n't just give up on the rest of my life because she was gone. I had to go on living. 
 
 I saw it happening before even my closest friends did. I started to become more withdrawn. I still went out, but less frequently. I still joked with my friends, but I laughed a little less each time. Food became bland. Colors became pale. Strangers became blurs. I could n't remember feeling anything for days. It was as if the mental and physical portions of my identity were there, but the emotional portion had been lost in a sea of regret and pain. 
 
 Then it all came unglued. 
 
 That night was n't especially tumultuous. Laundry had been folded. The dishwasher was running. There was a droning buzz from a movie I had seen six times on the television. The lights were on in the little apartment, but everything was washed in a gray shadow. Everything seemed to be a reflection of the apparition of how things should be. 
 
 Something inside clicked, and all feeling was gone. 
 
 I took one slow, deliberate step towards the closet in my bedroom. There's something in there I need. 
 
 A second step. An image forms in my mind. It's a small blue case, with a lock on the handle. There's something important inside it. 
 
 The third step. I reach into my left pocket, pulling out my keyring. There's a key here that will open that lock, and I need to get inside that case. 
 
 Fourth step. I'm in my bedroom now. I see my bed, unmade. Something odd strikes me: I always made my bed in the morning. Had I known, somehow, that I would n't be needing it made any more? 
 
 Fifth step. The closet door is shining like a beacon in a storm, burning bright in the washed out gray of everything else. I know salvation is in there, I know I want it. I'm just not sure I deserve it. 
 
 Sixth step. The cool brass of the doorknob in my right hand feels like a crisp breeze on an autumn day. A tingle runs up my arm and down my spine. Do I have the strength to open this door and take what I need? 
 
 Seventh step. The key is in the lock. The lock is on the floor. The case is open. The dull gray barrel strikes an ironic chord within me. Of course, why would this be different than anything else? 
 
 I stand there, the hard rubber grip in a hand I did n't know had moved. My thumb on a hammer I do n't remember pulling back. My right index finger on a trigger I do n't remember reaching for. 
 
 I stand there, staring, straight into the answer to all my problems. 
 
 I fall to my knees, and I begin to weep. The first emotion I've felt in weeks suddenly flooding my body. 
 
 Relief. Sweet, satisfying relief.
