Musings of a Wench

I would like to feel something else, please.

It is astonishing about now, in the midst of a frantically busy month, at the end of a fabulous and busy weekend, at the end of a day that had4 different events involving more than a dozen different people, days before John arrives for a vacation, that i can be just so SWAMPED by the Sunday weepies, even still.

I stay so busy that I can't function. Fucking vacuuming - I've stalled for like, 6 months and really should before John gets home Wednesday. I have plans and activities, I keep busy. And yet, I'm sitting here, listening to Matt Good sing to me of sorrow and rage, weeping. Again.


I'm out 4-5 nights a week, these days. I barely come home to check the mail, it seems. I stay so busy, and let I'm still here on Sunday night, weeping. I can't stay busy enough - no matter what I try, I still end up here almost every Sunday, waiting for the hours to slip by, waiting for the bright respite of a new week. Someone asked me at the bachelorette on Saturday how I've been coping, seeing it's been 8 months already - they remarked at how well I was doing. At least 3 martinis in, I told the truth, and they seemed shocked. I guess I seem to keep it together. (Then again, this same woman thought that I was Erin's sweet and nice friend - which set of hysterical laughter from those who know me well. I'm not that girl, but I guess you can fool some of the people all the time.) But I'm not fine. I stay busy - so busy. Even in some ways busy in what probably are bad. But I'm out and I'm moving and I can't slow down unti lSunday evening, and here I am. Again and again.

One weekend, after having a panic attack in slow motion for the entire day (I went to the mall for shampoo because you can't lose it in public), I came home and drank an entire bottle of wine with dinner. Sliding myself out of my skull into a puddle on the carpet was the only way I could think of to stop it - it was not in any way healthy but it worked.

Every other day is fine. Every other day is full. Yet, today, as I got in the car after event 4 and pulled on to the highway, I could feel it start.

No matter how much time I spend with people I love, I am so lonely. It's been 8 months, you guys. 6 months to go. When does his absence stop feeling like I've been kicked in the chest?

He's home in 3 sleeps, you guys. 3 sleeps and I still miss him so much it hurts.

That's what it is, in part. (I'm thinking through my fingers here.) It's one thing to have foreign vacations in far away lands - it's another thing to have him home in OUR BED for just two weeks. I've partially got so used to his absence that it's only a phantom limb, most of the time. But this? The sheets will still smell like him - I'll have laundry of his to do when he's gone. I've been doing pretty good at building a pseudo single life here for the last 240ish days. And then he's going to he back, to be here, and then he will leave again, and that's, I guess, the part of this that's killing me. It won't be enough - of course it won't. He'll leave, and there will still be 185 days more to go.

Enough, Morgan. This is not helping. Go do the fucking vacuuming. Enough. enough.

Labels: life, solo year, the boy, twisty, vacation

posted by Morgan @ 8:32 p.m.