So, I promised myself that I wouldn't use alcohol or cigarettes to get through this week-long experiment in being apart. But I had a glass of wine with dinner and I had a cigarette when I got home from practice. I tried to have another while I was writing but (luckily, I guess) I can't smoke and write at the same time (like Chris use to be able to do) because the smoke gets in my eyes and plus I'm smoking 305s instead of Spirits and they suck.
Here I am again in this room in this house that Chris and I bought. Same bed, same dogs on the floor, same old me. Melissa always told me that I just wanted someone to take care of me, and she's right. I look to everyone else to solve my problems and it's just not fair to anyone, not even me. So I'm here alone, wondering what the hell to do with myself. I don't think anyone understands just how hard this is for me. Or maybe they do know, maybe they feel the same way and are just too proud to admit it. I could use some pride about now...
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Things I would tell my ex if we were talking comfortably
The chubby dog is chubbier than ever, but I got a really great brush (the furminator) that helps keep them from shedding so much.
I bought a motorcycle. (and now I understand.) It's just little black Rebel 250. She's rusty, but she came with a windshield and black leather saddle bags. I ride her to and from work in good weather. Sometimes I ride with just a long-sleeved shirt instead of my bike jacket. But I still always wear long pants and my helmet.
I got prescription sunglasses. I LOVE them.
Mom came down and helped me clean out the office last weekend because I couldn't be in there for longer than 5 minutes by myself without being overwhelmed by your energy.
I'm finishing the garage. The drywall is up, but I hate sanding the spackle, so it's kind of stalled half-done. I don't know what color I'm going to paint it yet. I sold the workout machine but kept the treadmill.
I'm head coach of the college team now. I absolutely love coaching those girls, and I think they really like me too. It's my favorite thing right now. I don't even resent not being able to get in.
ok, more later.
I bought a motorcycle. (and now I understand.) It's just little black Rebel 250. She's rusty, but she came with a windshield and black leather saddle bags. I ride her to and from work in good weather. Sometimes I ride with just a long-sleeved shirt instead of my bike jacket. But I still always wear long pants and my helmet.
I got prescription sunglasses. I LOVE them.
Mom came down and helped me clean out the office last weekend because I couldn't be in there for longer than 5 minutes by myself without being overwhelmed by your energy.
I'm finishing the garage. The drywall is up, but I hate sanding the spackle, so it's kind of stalled half-done. I don't know what color I'm going to paint it yet. I sold the workout machine but kept the treadmill.
I'm head coach of the college team now. I absolutely love coaching those girls, and I think they really like me too. It's my favorite thing right now. I don't even resent not being able to get in.
ok, more later.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
I'm not even going to tell anyone about this post
I decided to start writing on my own blog because lately I've been inspired by the blogs of my ex-husband and his friends. They don't know I check their blogs daily, so I'm kind of a voyeur. But the divorce is too new for conversation or any kind of communication yet, so I read his posts and feel slightly connected.
Reading the posts has helped me to not wonder if we're ever going to be able to communicate again. It's helped me feel like I still have him in my life, although that's probably never possible again. He doesn't know it, but we've had multiple conversations in my head about the things he's written- his trip out of the country, his in between decision-making time, his return to the city of his dreams where, once, we thought we'd end up. Sometimes the monologue makes me sad, and sometimes it just feels right. We were never great communicators, so maybe my imagined conversations are better than the real ones could be. But I do miss him and his unique energy, which has gotten even more unique since we split.
The changes in him aren't really changes, I know that. They're more facets of his personality that he was never really comfortable showing with me, or maybe (to give him more credit) that I never allowed him to show to me, or maybe (to give us more credit) that he didn't need when we were together.
The hardest thing to read so far has been the one time he referred to me as "the ex." It sounded so disconnected, like I could be anyone. and, of course, that's what he strives for and, if I'm honest, what I strive for too. When he gets too near and I think about details like his long, thin fingers or the little stain on his front teeth, I tense up and crave a cigarette. When I can dispassionately read the accounts of his travels, I can pretend he's just an interesting person I found on blogspot, not the one who held my heart so tightly it scared the breath out of me.
Reading the posts has helped me to not wonder if we're ever going to be able to communicate again. It's helped me feel like I still have him in my life, although that's probably never possible again. He doesn't know it, but we've had multiple conversations in my head about the things he's written- his trip out of the country, his in between decision-making time, his return to the city of his dreams where, once, we thought we'd end up. Sometimes the monologue makes me sad, and sometimes it just feels right. We were never great communicators, so maybe my imagined conversations are better than the real ones could be. But I do miss him and his unique energy, which has gotten even more unique since we split.
The changes in him aren't really changes, I know that. They're more facets of his personality that he was never really comfortable showing with me, or maybe (to give him more credit) that I never allowed him to show to me, or maybe (to give us more credit) that he didn't need when we were together.
The hardest thing to read so far has been the one time he referred to me as "the ex." It sounded so disconnected, like I could be anyone. and, of course, that's what he strives for and, if I'm honest, what I strive for too. When he gets too near and I think about details like his long, thin fingers or the little stain on his front teeth, I tense up and crave a cigarette. When I can dispassionately read the accounts of his travels, I can pretend he's just an interesting person I found on blogspot, not the one who held my heart so tightly it scared the breath out of me.
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