unravelling

Oh, how I would like to take this.

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There are things I miss.

He made the oatmeal.
He made dinner.
He did the laundry. All of it.
He told me I was beautiful. Sometimes I believed him.
He brought me coffee. In bed. Every morning.
He loved me.

I moved out.

I don’t get sympathy because I’m the one who left. It makes people uncomfortable to know that because they don’t know what to do with it. If he’s clearly the bad guy we all know how to react, which shelf those feelings belong on. It would be so easy to just say “oh, girl, he’s a jerk. you can do so much better.” But when I correct them and say, “no, there’s nothing wrong with him, it was my decision,” there’s tension. And the face with the searching eyes, trying to figure out what exactly went wrong. I get the impression that there are two conclusions people come to: I cheated or I’m gay. My answers are never good enough to satisfy people, and honestly I don’t think I owe anyone else an explanation.

I get it. I know how quickly I judge a man who leaves his marriage. His kids and family. I know how that looks and how it would make me feel. I wouldn’t be knocking on his door to be his emotional support.

No one’s knocking on mine.

I can bellyache all I want. I can feel shitty and look for a shoulder to cry on, but the truth is that this is what I wanted and I walked out. It’s hard for people to feel empathy for me when what they want to say is “hey, isn’t this is what you wanted?”

It’s true. This is what I wanted. When I have an emotional response though, it’s not about the decision. I haven’t yet second guessed the decision. It’s about adjusting to the fallout. It’s about coming to terms with the fact that I have to vacuum my own damn carpet. I have to fold the laundry. I am going to have to make sacrifices if I want to go snowboarding. It’s a big change and even though I instigated it, I think I’m still entitled to be upset about it. I was married for five years. It’s going to take a little while.

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Angry

Do you know someone who is “perfect”. She isn’t. We all know that. She can’t be, right? But here’s the thing: She’s visibly perfect. No one sees her coming down the street and forms a negative opinion of her right off. Her shortcomings are hidden under a mess of legs and boobs and hair that never looks bad. Even when she “didn’t bother doing anything to it because I was in a rush this morning.” Eff. You.

I wish I didn’t have to wear my shortcomings. You may argue that I don’t *have* to be this way. Of course I don’t. But seriously you try being severely overweight for 25 or so years and let me know how easy it is to “fix” your life.

Blah blah blah, angst. Grow up already.

Other news:

I saw Jason Mraz on Friday. He sang for me. And I guess the rest of the people in the auditorium… It was great.

The left mouse button on my trackball is crapping out and I spent a good part of the evening trying to figure out why my computer wasn’t responsive. Mouse failure is so much better than macbook failure.

My cats are crazy.

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