Eww. How I hate Sundays. Actually it isn’t really Sundays. It’s me. It’s my so-called life. I’m not doing well folks. I’m really not.
I’m horribly lonely, but when I try to think of who I could contact to meet up with, I’m all ambivalent about them and think I don’t really like them. I’m not liking myself in this aftermath of M. I haven’t forgiven myself for the depredations he made in my life. I haven’t forgiven me for how totally I was swept up in that firestorm.
This uneasy relationship with myself makes it very uncomfortable being in my own company, but being with others is every bit as challenging if not more so. There’s some basic human comfort in the companionship. But I’m struggling to affirm others or to feel I have anything to offer them, and I’m likely to interpret even the most innocent remark as a slight or a sign of their dislike. It’s also painful to witness the social connectedness of others. Feelings of envy don’t help my self-esteem one bit.
I have an opportunity. He’s firmly locked away from me. I can go cold turkey and free myself of that addiction once and for all. But like any detox it’s scary, it’s messy, it’s terribly hard. I don’t quite know who I am anymore. I have a feeling I might have weakened and gone back to him if he hadn’t been banged up. The loneliness is just too much to bear. I crave even just a few moments of that irresistible intoxication. Very much like crack cocaine.
Yet he did something I can never condone. Something shameful which offends my values, or what’s left of them after a 20 month rollercoaster ride with a psychopath. I can’t go back, even if he were released tomorrow. I know too much, now. I know he never really loved me, that he can’t love, that I was just prey.
I’ve been watching movies and British comedy shows on Netflix as well as a documentary on psychopathy. I’m struggling with answering emails. It’s odd. I’m too lonely to want to be with people, even virtually. I’m ashamed for them to see how needy I am. I’m all twisted up and contorted. Even prayers don’t provide a release. Everything I try fails to fill the enormous black hole that’s opened up in my life. All I can reasonably do is survive it, keep breathing and know this too shall pass.
I’ve booked a professional carpet cleaner to come tomorrow and hopefully remove some nasty stains on the upstairs carpets. I want to remove the stains of M. I want to make the house acceptable and hospitable to my son, if and when he was to return.
I want to regain my lost innocence. I want the redemption I wishfully saw in M when we started out. The redemption he threw out along with the garbage he used to obsessively dump, the clothes to charity, the bigger articles to the recycling centre, me in favour of targets new and interesting to his predator’s eye. Of course I dumped him, technically. But that was all part of his game plan. He deliberately made himself impossible to live with. He didn’t want the responsibility of dumping me.
Suicidal thoughts flit past like butterflies. They are not serious, they have no root. But life is absolutely horrible right now.
I need people. But I don’t want to go to them. Being together is even more painful than being alone. It’s all a bit strange. I guess at the root of it is shame. I’m feeling all the shame which M should be feeling but isn’t. I want to isolate. Only when my house turns into a pressure chamber do I leave it gladly. The rest of the time going out is a test of will. Today is DRA. As per usual, I don’t want to go…
Damn. Damn. Damn.
But writing this has helped, a bit. So thank you gentle reader for allowing me to vent. You’re kinder to me than I am to myself. Yet like all of us I am a work in progress. I am not stuck. I will move on and up.