In keeping with my now crappy mood and old diary-reading, here’s something raw from several years ago. I haven’t had writing like this for a long time. That’s a testament to the wonderfulness of Mr. Wonderful. But JUST IN CASE you “don’t care to know” what’s in my past writings, you don’t have to click on the “more” below. (I’m not bitter.)

~
Wednesday. My first Wednesday w/o you in a long time. I felt the tears burn as I turned into the driveway. As much as I wanted the fantasy that maybe your car would be there when I arrived home, as it had been for so many of your 1/2-day Wednesdays, I knew there would be no shadow cast by your car on the right side of the garage floor. I looked for it anyway. As the door rose higher, there was no flash of silver bumper revealed. An empty garage. When I pulled my car into the middle of the garage, I was already heaving with sobs.

I was doing well for almost an hour. I had a supportive conversation with Diana for nearly an hour after work, parked outside my bank. After we hung up, I walked with confidence and deliberateness to the ATM, withdrew some cash, got back to my car, drove home. Small victories.

Once in the house already in tears, I wondered when you were going to move in to your new […] house. […] I just now remembered you saying something about moving on Memorial Day weekend, that’s the last days of May. You’d said there’d be no housewarming parties without me, that I’d be by your side. I guess that’s gone now. Renaissance Faire this Saturday, that’s evaporated, too.

What are you going to do that Saturday which you’d switched with Dr. [J] so that you could attend the Faire with me? What am I going to do that empty Saturday, coming up in 3 days? And that Vegas trip in July where we’d planned to double-date with [W] and [R] and they’d already booked their room in the same hotel we’d been planning to stay (Monte Carlo)?

It’s strange to go thru all the normal motions of taking off a belt, removing and hanging up pants and shirt, all while sobbing ruefully. It feels surreal. Not the crying and the pain; that’s all too real. The real life is what feels removed, obscured by a veil. The emotions are colorful, loud, painful. The phone ringing in the midst of this observation was cruel. In a shaking sorrow-stricken voice, I picked up and said hello, hoping it was you and yet afraid to hope it was you. That was the first time in my life I had hung up on a telemarketer, after she compassionlessly made me repeat “hello” after a heart-pounding silence.

It’s the moment-to-moment emptiness that’s hard. It’s the getting through the “now.” It’s the lack of something to look forward to. It’s the loss of things anticipated. It’s the fear of the future — not the far future, but the immediate future. What will I do with myself the next 10 minutes? The next hour? Day? Week?