I'm writing early today to get something less hurried on the page.
Yesterday, the spell broke. The deep irony is that the year of therapy that K— paid for empowered me to leave the relationship. I intended to take a walk with her, but it concluded in a verbal transaction dripping with manipulative capital. You get to a point where there is nothing to fight for besides the opportunity to stay in the miserable state of neglect and disappointment that you can't fix alone. So who knows what will happen with that friendship. I'm feeling the lack of today. Not going to lie. I have B—. I took my daughter, L— for covid-19 testing at the insta-care in the neighboring city. I feel listless even though there's plenty to do. I try to read and my mind wanders off. I get tired of the television after less than an hour. I could cook something new tonight, and maybe I will. But the denouement blues have set in.
Why does making good decisions feel so sorrowful? So regrettable? No, really. It wasn't a good decision as much as it was the right one if I have any respect or sense of responsibility for myself. I think it hurts because I am powerless to do anything else. What I wanted was always out of reach. I will not cry sour grapes over this, but I will give heed to any who thinks I was different than those before me in her long line of mad loves. These last few months she'd worry whenever I started seeing patterns.
Aloneness isn't comfortable for me. This is the part of life where I learn to become comfortable with discomfort. This is where I learn to identify what I'm feeling and what I want. (Yes, it's ridiculous for a 45-yr-old woman to not know these personal details. It isn't ridiculous that she's trying to figure it out.)
I hope L—'s test comes back negative, that her cough is just a cough, and that she is feeling well soon. I hope I can assuage my malaise. I hope. That's the most important possession I have. That's how I've managed to set out again on the winding road to self-compassion and wisdom.