Wherein I break with all common sense and spill my guts

(Family, this post isn't for you.  Please read this post, too, if you  missed it from a few days ago.  If you choose to read it, keep it to yourself.)

 

Image via Lucynka55.

I'm "home sick" today.  Literally, and for the first time since becoming a mother almost three years ago.  I woke up this morning before dawn and had a 101.5 fever.  I patiently waited until the sane hour of 6:30 am and called my mom.

"Mom," I croaked.  "I'm sick.  I give in.  Can Terry come get Hollis later today??"

So, Hollis went off with Papa for a day (and night) of fun and frolic and I am left in an empty house, an empty city, and with an Ibuprofen-controlled fever.

And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself.

Forget for a minute that my son is gone for the day, but really: I. don't. know. what. the. fuck. to. do. with. myself.

Like, in general.  My marriage is all kinds of fucked (let's be honest here, I am not hopeful and neither is Anthony).  I don't have a job, though I'm perfectly educated for one.  I feel like I have too much time on my hands to think/feel/worry/wonder/fantasize.  I feel adrift, to say the very least.

Even feeling like this confuses me because I know that I'll land on my feet.  I always do.  I may prefer dogs to cats, but I'm very cat-like in my nimbleness.  For instance, I got a $100 check card in the mail the other day during a month that we're particularly hemorrhaging money.  Just more proof that I'll be ok.

I consistently feel like what I really want is out of my reach, too far away, destined never to be in my grasp because I'm not smart enough to figure it all out.  How do I get that fucking holy grail of happiness and contentment?  Why am I compelled to reach for it in the first place?

I hate limbo.  I'm such a shit or get off the pot sort of gal.  You'll never hear me complain about something unless I'm prepared to try to fix it.  Therefore, Anthony and I have decided to take the separation a step further: he'll be moving in to the apartment full time and Hollis will be going back and forth.  It's been too hard on all of us, this weird sharing of space and pre-dawn commutes.

When did my life become a series of moves to disassemble??  I spent so long putting it all together in the first place.

One minute I'm extremely excited about my future and its possibilities for greater happiness and the next I'm disconsolate over my complete inability to make what I have work.  But how can I possibly change who I am at the core??  This isn't a communication issue.  This isn't a behavioral issue.  It's a person issue.  I am the wrong woman for him.  He is the wrong man for me.  It's no one's fault.  It just fucking is.

It's taken me hours to write this, all day in fact.  A friend came by to see me today for a few hours, I chatted online with friends, I perused/sifted/day-dreamed about so many 1s and 0s, then Anthony and I chatted and we discussed official separation papers and "Do we know any family attorneys among our collection of friends?"  I've kept the fever at bay, but not my insidious worrying that I will fail at this transition somehow, that I'm failing now.  

It's interesting that I can at once believe in my abilities and failings so completely at once.  A sign of the times, I suppose.

I want it to be two years from now so badly; to just skip over so much bullshit emotion and pain and be on the other side of this.  Full of piss and vinegar again, ready to tackle anything.  I'm so tired.  So, so tired, and yet, I wish I were busier.  I'm plagued by my free time.  I'm envious of Anthony and his skills at compartmentalizing.  I've never been good at that.  Occasionally I get a whiff of what that's like when I lose track of time writing or talking to a friend or working out, but I can't consume myself with those things all day every day, can I?

I miss Anthony and what he represents, but I don't miss our combined energies.  We're both happier apart.  This is really the right thing to do.  All of it.  Every last drop.

Swirling confusion.  I feel like I've been blindfolded and spun around, then spanked smartly on my behind.  I'm titillated and interested, confused and stumbling; I'm eager to swallow the treat.  So eager.

Just keep rolling with the punches.  I can do this.

Breathe.

[Ed. note: I went to bed last night thinking, "I should probably put a disclaimer on my post reminding people that I'm ok", so, here it is.  If we hung out we'd joke and laugh, and I'd make inappropriate jokes as per my usual, and we'd talk about your house renovations or your PhD program or your son.  I'd answer any questions you had about what's happened with me and Anthony and I might tear up (a little), but I wouldn't cry.  Then I'd tell you all about how Hollis named the underground garage at Wholefoods a "car-house" and how I've fallen back in love with my boobs.  I might even tell you about my new found resolve to most definitely not get another dog.  It's not all doom and gloom over here.  I just had a moment yesterday.  I have them regularly, though not continuously, and once I get it off my chest I feel better.  Thanks for all the love you give me, everyone.  Truly, it's amazing and overwhelming and it's such a wonderful reminder to throw open my front door each and every day and smile into the the world and to keep doing what I do.]