This is part three of a Friday series. Although this particular post could stand alone, you may understand the "he" I refer to better if you skim through parts 1 and 2. Use the label: "The Winter of Our Discontent, or find parts 1 and 2 in the sidebar.
I can't handle the truth. I've been working on the installment for this Friday. I've rewritten it four times. One of those times were complete. Two were titles and a few sentences and one was just me saying I couldn't do it this week. I didn't realize I was still so close up on it.
Facing the truth is a difficult place to be. Staring at ourselves and realizing what we thought we were over isn't quite over. I made a choice--the right choice--but that doesn't mean I get to snap my fingers and have those feelings go away. In those first days and weeks after the decision I wanted to die. Not in that way people say, "I could just die". In that way your feel it in your soul, like it's been ripped out and rearranged right before your eyes. All I wanted to do was sleep. I didn't want to hear about other people's problems. Mine were so huge at the moment, I couldn't even think of having compassion for another human being. Things became disproportionate, as though walking through a circus fun house. My head screamed and I couldn't think. I was scared everyone could tell how I was feeling and at the same time, I was hurt that no one knew how I felt.
Don't get me wrong, I'm getting better. There's a lot of obsessive things I was doing at the beginning like parking in strategic spaces and timing my entrances and arrivals in hopes of having a candid moment with him. I lingered after social occasions to try to cross paths with him. I wanted him to pull me aside and ask me what happened. I was going to tell him, "I already had plenty of people in my life willing to screw me and act like I didn't exist, I didn't need another." He would be visibly hurt that I felt that was what he was offering and we would make up. He'd tell me he wanted to work it out. He'd tell me he was sorry if he came off like an ass. He still really cared for me, he missed me and wanted to be with me. The reality was he seemed to drop off the face of the earth. It was as if he'd ceased to exist.
I went through a few months when I was pretty angry he didn't show up at any of my performances. I thought he should be watching the papers for where I would be playing next. I wanted to think he was in the audience when I didn't know it. Secretly giving his approval for that night's show. He'd approach me in the shadowy parking lot backstage and, well, my mind kind of takes it from there.
I thought most of that nonsense was behind me until I decided to try to write about it as a final chapter in the healing process. I realize I'm not healed and I don't like it. I hate it. I realize that if he was to call or text message me tonight, I'd be there. Wherever he wanted. I'm ashamed. My mind has returned to so many of the intimate talks we've had and the funny moments we shared.
I wanted to share the experience. Certainly there is another woman out there that's been where I am that might benefit from knowing she is not alone. That it hurts like hell, but with time it hurts less and less and you think about him less and less. The truth is, it still hurts like hell and it's been about seven months since our last phone conversation. I haven't seen him in nine months. I still think about him everyday and hope the phone will ring and I will hear his voice. I hate what happened. I hate how I feel and how I acted. I'm embarrassed and ashamed.
That is my truth and I'm not handling it very well. I am no where near the winter of my discontent. It's in full bloom.
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