WAKING UP TO JUST ME …

It’s hell waking up in the morning.

For a couple of minutes, before I even open my eyes, there’s the intense pain of feeling empty and totally, absolutely alone.  What’s the point in living?  Is there any reason to get up?  Am I really me without him?  Who am I?

I think all my friends who have husbands or wives can imagine how this might feel.

In a way I lived for him, because of him, for 12 years.  Every day, I’d go off all heroic, pretend to build empires and slay dragons … then I’d come home and just be me … the silly, girly, ultra domesticated me that no one but he knew.  And if anyone had asked, which was real life to me I wouldn’t have had to think twice.  What was real was coming home and telling Roli stories about my fantasy world called the office.  Laughing about it.  Letting it all go.  

We always had a home with love in it.  A home with love plus his spectacular DVD collection, my experimental cooking, his useful gadgets and gizmos, my perfectly organized zen decor. 

Now we walk around like wounded halves of a whole.

And I have stupid regrets, like I never finished Red, White and Blue because I always assumed they’d just be sitting around for me to watch whenever I wanted to.  And he realizes he never had to worry about where the clean towels and socks and pillowcases would come from and now, has he ever got logistical problems …

He’s moved all his stuff out.  Finally.  All of his stuff … except for himself. 

He still sleeps on the couch.

It’s absurd but I let it be.

I’m afraid.

He’s afraid.

His being around has stopped me from ever coming home early to write in peace.  But it’s also stopped me from asking strangers home in my weak and drunken moments, spared me from a rebound.

And most days I’m thankful to be alive, to be redefining who I am without a relationship in my life. 

It’s just the getting up in the morning that’s so damn hard.