My patience is being severely tested. I feel as if time is orbiting around me and I’m outside of its sphere. He’s moved out. And I’m waiting, waiting, waiting…for completion, for relief, for a clue.
It’s as though I’m sleepwalking through my life. Or better yet, it’s as if I were my own stunt double; working, paying the bills, relating to people, trying to seem normal…whatever that is. A daily tug of war with depression frames my struggle to eak out from under the covers. I do it; just not willingly.
When he drove away from our house for the last time, I felt the world stop spinning. I watched until his car disappeared from view and shed no tears, even though I felt like I should have been drowning in them. You believe you can predict how you’ll feel when the clock runs down and the game is over, but it’s not like that. So far all I feel is numb and that’s like calling black a color when really, it is the absence of light.
It’s as if someone bubble-wrapped my heart and packed it away for safe-keeping but I’ll be damned if I know where to look for it. I tell myself that everything will be fine.
This too shall pass.
Time wounds all heels.
But none of these platitudes makes me feel whole or helps me remember what life was like before I was split in two. Somebody should invent super glue for the broken hearted or a floatation device for us to use when we sink below the radar of acceptable behavior. I’m alone here in uncharted waters, waiting for instructions and the only thing that makes sense is to just keep breathing. I know how to do that. Being patient? Not so much.