Morning

My eyes flick open.  I'm laying on my back in bed, its 7:07am.  Heart seize for the feeling I am now accustomed to waking to:  loneliness, I think?  Sadness, for sure.   I ride out that feeling everyday, through my shower, making coffee, getting dressed.  Saving Grace, my children blessed are they.  Wake up! Wake up! We start our day, and after about two hours passes from my initial launching of the day, I start to feel better.

But today, the treasures arent home.  They are with him for a family wedding: two people I love are joining in the blessed commitment under Gods eyes.  Its real and happy, and I wanted my kids to see too, and rejoice.


Its so hard though. You know it is.  I want to be completely pure and authentic and say its all okay.  No worries.  But inner dialogue is batting me from the  inside out with wordless visual memories.
He's grabbing my throat with his two hands. Again. Stop please.  He is mad because I wont accept his betrayal willingly:  come home! Be with us! Stop getting drunk and commit to our family again. To us, again.  NO! And he pins me down as I go limp.  Again.  I cradle his face with my hands, and say softly, calm down. My heart breaking, his filled with anger, seeking retribution for crimes that he thinks I did against him.  Who is this man, my husband, my love and lover?  Gone, gone, gone.

The very act of writing this blog would be construed as such, a betrayal on my part.  How dare I air this on a public (albeit anonymous) forum.  such an invasion of privacy?  But no one I know is allowed in, unless I let it.  And I don't want to.  Its mine.

And what do I do if i don't write, write to bleed out this feeling of desperate anxiety? Run to the bars like he did? Like he does (I don't know him anymore, but its likely he still finds solace in the pubs he loves).  I don't want to take antidepressants to mask a feeling I know is probably the correct response to this horrorshow.  To be happy now, would be a little psycho, wouldn't it?  Unless, I can find the real healing I seek, I am terrified being in this mortal limbo forever.


So I write.  Not melodramatic iambic pentameter aesthetic illusory rigamaroll.
It hurts, plain and simple.   Later, I plan to meet my friends, though the kids absence makes me feel like I am missing my arm and leg as I hobble out. But I think I can do this.  I must and maybe this will feel like a good thing.  Popye, that great muscley armed dude who loved Spinach (and had a long time girlfriend) said it best:  "I am what I am".  And for today, that will have to be good enough.