Letter to my lost husband.
Some days are harder than others. Today, I felt lonely, and lonely specifically for you. For your body, for your company, for the parts of you that maybe I haven't seen in years. I can't really remember, honestly. The years with the children have been a blur, me moving through each day, surviving until I could find the next moment to come up for air. You'd stopped being a raft I could cling to in the rapids. You'd become a weight. I remember the weight, and many days, being away from you feels like freedom. Like lightness.
But there is no denying, you are my person. You're the man I love, and you always will be. I don't know how to get you out of my blood. I'll always be your girl, and I'll never live with you again.
It is strange to be lonely and never be alone. I think about how I'll feel when the girls are grown, when Lily leaves home for college or whatever that last touchpoint is. I wonder if at that moment, it will feel like all the running I've been doing for all these years just stops. If time will freeze, and I'll look around at what's left of me and see a lack. Or see a fullness? It depends on the day.
I'd meant to write something every day, even if it was just a few lines resembling something like a poem. You leaving this house gave me a lack to write into. I've always liked communicating into an abyss, about an abyss. The missing things are inspiring.
But I'm busy. Tired. Lonely. I write for work, so when I'm home, I don't want to write. Or read. Or think, really. The world is sad and terrifying. The news is upsetting, and I don't know where you are. I don't know who I am. Except I do, and I'm sad that the woman I am can't live with you.
I find myself irresistibly drawn to the emotionally vacant. A set of eyes examining me clinically, evaluating me for what I'm worth. Where did I learn that this was desirable? And what do I want? To be used up? To fill the vacancy? To pour myself into a never-ending emptiness, pouring and pouring and pouring? Do I think I'm God?
Your dog is sad. He walks around with his long face and tall ears, just sad for you. Your children are sad. Your wife is sad. We all want impossible things. I'm not your wife anymore.
I miss you. Stay away, please. Stay gone.
But there is no denying, you are my person. You're the man I love, and you always will be. I don't know how to get you out of my blood. I'll always be your girl, and I'll never live with you again.
It is strange to be lonely and never be alone. I think about how I'll feel when the girls are grown, when Lily leaves home for college or whatever that last touchpoint is. I wonder if at that moment, it will feel like all the running I've been doing for all these years just stops. If time will freeze, and I'll look around at what's left of me and see a lack. Or see a fullness? It depends on the day.
I'd meant to write something every day, even if it was just a few lines resembling something like a poem. You leaving this house gave me a lack to write into. I've always liked communicating into an abyss, about an abyss. The missing things are inspiring.
But I'm busy. Tired. Lonely. I write for work, so when I'm home, I don't want to write. Or read. Or think, really. The world is sad and terrifying. The news is upsetting, and I don't know where you are. I don't know who I am. Except I do, and I'm sad that the woman I am can't live with you.
I find myself irresistibly drawn to the emotionally vacant. A set of eyes examining me clinically, evaluating me for what I'm worth. Where did I learn that this was desirable? And what do I want? To be used up? To fill the vacancy? To pour myself into a never-ending emptiness, pouring and pouring and pouring? Do I think I'm God?
Your dog is sad. He walks around with his long face and tall ears, just sad for you. Your children are sad. Your wife is sad. We all want impossible things. I'm not your wife anymore.
I miss you. Stay away, please. Stay gone.
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