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Things are getting better and worse. Now that I know I’ll be
in a classroom soon, the loneliness seems less oppressive sometimes, but there
are nights (often Wednesday nights, for some reason) when times slows down and
I just don’t know what I am going to do with myself.
Sweetie and I have broken the habit of checking in several
times a day, and when I do call her at work or sit down to talk to her, it
isn’t the same. When I ask her for help figuring something out, I know I’m
missing an opportunity to strengthen my emotional muscles, to build new
friendly bonds and/or neural pathways. Little by little, our habits and
routines are dying away.
We stopped switching back and forth between the foldout
couch and bed. She claims that the couch is better for her back, but I know
it’s an act of chivalry and I’m accepting it, because I don’t know what else to
do. The window sill that acts as our (now my) headboard used to be cluttered
with books, magazines, and art supplies from when we used to spend weekend days
in bed together, doing our separate whatever but still snuggled up. I miss her
there, I miss when that felt right.
Even after we broke up, she used to kiss me on the head
before she left for work, but the other day I put my hand up and deflected it.
With my mouth feeling so needy, I couldn’t risk even a forehead kiss.
She’s still my friend, but it’s closing up. I feel myself
shutting off from her and seeking support elsewhere and within myself.
We used to have a mug that said “No Coffee, No Service.” for
some reason, even when I wasn’t using that particular mug, I used to say that
to her every morning when I brought her coffee: “No coffee, no service.” I just
realized I stopped doing that a couple of weeks ago.
This apartment is a sucking hole of loss, and half the time
I don’t even realize it. I start to think of it as the only truth, that I am the loss and sadness, but on days
when I’m away, I start to feel like myself again. The other day when I was
driving with The Lady of the House to the beach, it felt like a reunion with
myself, a reassurance of my continued existence, a real life after this
marriage.
But I miss the feeling of knowing where my family is—not my
family of origin, not my sister’s family in the next state, but my own family, my own home. Having
everything up in the air is exhausting and every life around me feels more
situated than mine. It’s too much ending and not enough beginning. I need
something to help pull me forward to the next life.
To give a little tribute to the grief without it swallowing
me under, here’s a list of ten things I miss about her:
1. I miss coming home from a date or a night out and getting
all kinds of snuggles, parsing out every nuance of the adventure I’d just been
on. (I’m having an icky realization that it might have been filling a parental
need, the wish to have a mother figure who rooted for me to find love and
happiness. Yeesh.)
2. I miss travelling with her, stopping off at rest stops
for snacks, stopping on the way home for ice cream. (My eating habits have been
getting better and I really don’t mind pumping my own gas, dear.)
3. I miss our podcasts—I don’t think that I can listen to Radiolab or Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me or Judge
John Hodgman without her.
4. I miss the cats being our
cats.
5. Likewise the dishes, the sheets, the groceries. We still
share all those things for the time being, but they are no longer a
representation of our love.
6. I miss thinking of her at the library and picking up
weird fantasy novels in case she’d like them.
7. I miss the garden being our garden. Since I might try and
keep this apartment, I guess it’ll be my garden. Back when we lived in my
hometown, the garden used to be like our whole life, but we haven’t had that in
many years.
8. I miss her body belonging to me, but not mine belonging
to her.
9. I miss having dates with her. We haven’t even been to the
movies in a few weeks, though I guess that’s still permitted.
10. I miss the pink ropes and all the other snuggly things.
I’m grateful I can write it out.
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