Today has been a very rough day.
I woke up and took Peyton to school and on my way in and out of the apartment complex I hid my eyes from looking at the cars parked next to the gate. I don’t know if you were parked there or not.
When I got home I was filled with a restlessness, a curling, clinging feeling that I’d been fighting for days. With Peyton gone and no work ahead of me I decided to succumb to the urge scratching beneath the surface of my skin. I felt guilty, but helpless to fight it.
I walked into my room and dragged the Hitachi out from under the bed and pressed the buzzing head against the wedge of my legs as I leaned against the wall. I wore my California state flag shirt and pair of panties.
As the orgasm ripped through me, so did a cry. It was guttural and primal and I began to sob. I dropped the vibrator and cried against the wall for a few moments. The orgasm reminded me of you; it was painful and heart-wrenching.
I miss you. I miss you so so so much.
Two more times I returned to my sun-filled room and brought myself to a sobbing orgasm. The sensation split me open and broke me apart; I imagined you doing the same thing for the past two weeks and I sobbed openly with my face in an ugly, pain-filled grimace.
I felt at once lighter and much darker; I had seen a clear image during my ascent to climax: I saw you come to my house carrying a box. A box of my things.
In about 26 hours I expect you to make contact for the first time in two weeks and then all my wondering will be finally put to rest. I’ll know what’s going to happen.
Saturday I became a little angry with you as I imagined you really loving this time away while I wallowed in complete and total misery. But it quickly dissipated within hours and I was filled again with doubt, remorse, and worry. It has since morphed into total hopelessness, a numb helplessness.
I don’t believe you want me anymore. I just don’t.
I come from a marriage background where when things suck and are difficult you hammer them out. You don’t. You’re still of the dating mind: it sucks, you leave. At least that’s where I think you are. I don’t know…
I looked at my little ovulation/sex calendar on my phone today and I can see exactly how we’ve petered out. The last time I made you cum was in December of 2013, approximately 2 weeks before I told you I loved you. It broke my heart to see that.
I’ve been sleeping with your Ohio sweatshirt for days. All balled up like a teddy bear. And today I wore a pair of your underpants. I liked how the legs gripped my thighs and with every stride I took I thought of you. I also wore my new bralette; you’ve never seen it. You don’t even know it exists and you might never know. That also makes me sad. So very sad.
And I packed up all your things, everything I could think of.
Your DVDs, your pizza pan, your clothes, your cups and plates and spoon, your drill and flip flops that I bought you just for my house. When you say the things I’m almost certain you will I don’t want to look around and see any reminders. The heartache will be plenty.
I don’t want to be unprepared tomorrow night at midnight or the following morning or whenever you’re going to bring the hammer down. If you end things I will hand you your bags and tell you to leave me alone. Maybe for ever; at least for a very long time.
I hope I’ve proved something to you during this time, TN. Namely that I’m immensely stronger than you ever thought (but I always knew) and also that breaks aren’t real. This just feels like a preliminary breakup to me; I don’t think “a break” can exist in a relationship, quite frankly.
Unless you think of it as breaking someone’s heart, in which case I fully believe. You can break a heart.
I admit that this is awfully pessimistic but I am really struggling with being hopeful. Fourteen days of no contact from you. You didn’t end it early, you haven’t left a crumb, and the last time I saw you your eyes were red with tears and heartbreak that we caused you. How could I possibly be hopeful?
Though, like sunlight hitting the floor of a forest, there is the tiniest wedge of hope in me. I wouldn’t be me if it were all hopelessness; I am an eternally, relentlessly glass-half-full kind of girl. I’m shy to admit that there is a sliver of hope in my heart about this. It really and truly is there — I swear — but it is so starkly terrifying to admit to that I’m really just whispering it. A spider’s shadow.
It scares me. My hope scares me.
The hopelessness is so very huge and looming over my little spider of hope its presence seems woefully small — so small — but it’s there, I can’t deny it. And it makes me feel a little brighter than I probably should. The wiser side of me says I should expect only the worst and none of the best, but the Hyacinth deep inside of me won’t let the darkness take over.
Behind my vision of you carrying a box of my things to me on Wednesday to leave me forever is also the hope that you’ll come to me with renewed love and commitment.
And then our love will blossom and glow like a tender ember.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I’ll just be left alone in my living room taking raunchy pictures of myself in your underwear for thousands of strangers. Oh wait, that’s already happened.
Please don’t leave me, TN. Please… I’m exhausted and sad and hopeful and a whole lot scared and all I really want from you is to not unilaterally decide what happens to us now. I want a say in all of this. Yes things will have to change if we stay together, but I think it will be a colossal loss to discover I have no recourse here. I want to make things right between us for the both of us.
I believe in us, TN. I really and truly do. That flame isn’t afraid to burn; it’s confident and proud. I’m afraid to hope, but not afraid to say I’m competent enough to figure shit out. There’s a difference there, I think.
With all my broken heart,