He broke up with me in front of our therapist, said he didn’t want to try. Didn’t want to be married. Didn’t want to be married to me. It felt a terrible sort of right, that the year was dying and the light was dying and the marriage was dying. It would take two weeks for the light to come back. Two weeks of asking myself if I’m okay and I am but I’m not but I mostly am. This thing that I tried to keep alive for years was finally dead. And it was dead because I wasn’t feeding far more than my share. And he didn’t feed it at all, and so it died.

I feel good, in a way. I know for sure it wasn’t me. I know it was him. I tried. I tried incredibly hard. And when I asked him to try back, to come halfway, not even all the way, just half, he didn’t want to and couldn’t and gave up.

I don’t like not being wanted. It is, however, far superior an experience to appear as lonely as I feel. To not pretend and make excuses and hope and hope and hope for time and attention and to receive a fraction of what I give.

Now all I want is to be on the other side. I don’t like packing up my things and making arrangements and living in this half-place where we still own things, together, and still have things, together, but we’re not together. The house is slowly clearing out and it feels like a race. Like I need to prove that I really am okay with this, and I can not-care and be as relieved as he is. He found a place and is moving and will move out/in before me. I don’t like it. I want to win. But so far he’s winning. He has a place to take some of the bigger furniture, and the house keeps getting emptier.

I asked my friend if I should make my new year’s resolution be ‘get divorced’ but she figured since it was already in process, that doesn’t count.

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Nikolai has had three teeth pulled this afternoon.  His oral surgeon (the word oral always makes me think rather tarty thoughts) was an expeditious man, busting those three suckers out in an hour, tops.  The “procedure” (a word that makes me feel as if I am in a bad medical show or perhaps a likewise bad sci-fi flick) was scheduled to start at 2:30 ( get it?  Tooth-hurty? I bet the oral surgeon had no idea. snicker)  and end at 3:30.  I was asked to collect Nikolai at 3:15, or at least return about then to get him.  I got a call as I was in transit at like, 3:20.  He was ready.  Dayum, Dr. Teeth was efficient!  I ushered a pale and ice-packed man to the car and home, flustered about getting him installed on the couch in comfy clothes and far more cushy pillows and blankets than were strictly necessary.  He managed to drool blood panache, bespeckling ojbects that would otherwise have faced to the background of my attention.  Once we corralled his numb mouth and got him settled, I set off to the grocery store for his meds, a hell of a lot more gauze, and soft foods.

First off, I have never put in a prescription at a pharmacy to be filled.  Honestly.  I have never done such a thing.  So I wandered in, trying to be honest and open, and I explained to the gal at the counter that I had no idea what I was doing.  She was sweet and directed me over to the “Rx Drop Off” counter and only rolled her eyes once, while an astonishingly attractive pharmacist-man laughed at me.  Really, dude?  I am honest that I have no idea what’s going on, and your response is to laugh?  Well thank god you only went into pharmaceuticals.  If this is how you treat people once they’re recovering, I would hate to see your bedside manner.  HA HA HA YOU HAVE CANCER WHAT A NERD WHO GETS CANCER?   I am extrapolating, of course, but I feel that this is a distinct possibility.

Anyway, I got the scrip started and set off to get soft foods and other things we needed.  In process, I managed to overfill the wee little basket I had nabbed, so I staggered up to the checkout fellow with three loaves of bread and a dozed bratwurst in one hand, and a basket with pudding leaping out in the other.  He was unimpressed.  halfway through sherpa-ing that stuff home I got the call that his meds were ready, but no way was I turning back then.  I got home, offloaded, helped him swap gauzes, got his insurance info, and pranced on back to the store for the drugs.  Lucky for me, the attractive pharmadouche was no longer on shift.  I probably would not have kept the sass to myself.  After obtaining the swag as well as far more gauze than was strictly necessary, I got home where I promptly fed Nikolai a Percoset™.  I then explained that he should have taken it with food, but whatever.

He has recently requested soup.  Granted, he has recently exploded into a flop sweat and fainted, so it’s really anyone’s game.  But he’s upright (mostly) and eating now, and has just put in a request for pudding.  This may end well, after all, given that I didn’t giggle myself into a fit when he collapsed.  I totally saved him, if you were wondering.  Busted out my three-year old first aid training and SAVED his fainty butt.

 

I went to give blood today.  I like donating blood!  It’s one of the few things I do that can have actual global significance.  I don’t like the process especially, but I do like the feeling of accomplishment at the end, the free cookies and juice, and all the sympathy I can trump up for myself.  It’s a wonder I didn’t post a picture of my bandaged-up arm to Facebook.  

This time ’round, the experience was a bit more unpleasant than usual.  I haven’t donated in I think almost two years which made most of the process fresh horror for me.  I ate a decent breakfast about an hour before the appointment, drank lots of water yesterday and today, had no caffeine, and still had the nervous shakes as I waited.  
 
I detest the prick needle that is spring-loaded to jab my finger to test my hemoglobin, so I nervous-chatter my way through that.  I passed the test just fine and I don’t have any sketchy life practices that could be problematic.  Getting to the giving bed/table thing was no problem.  I got a blanket because the room was cold.  Yay blankets!  My phlebotomist, while I’m sure a nice person, laughed when I requested a hand to hold when he jabbed me.  I’ll tell you:  the edge of the table provides no reassuring squeezing.  
 
I got to pumping and all seemed well.  I focused on taking deep breaths and not trying to feel the humongous needle in my vein, which would require me to hold my breath to try to sense in my arm.  He checked on me once, all good.  He began to set up another giver, and I called him over saying it was making a weird feeling.  The line running across my wrist felt – – bumpy.  It felt like the bag was bump-bump-bumping the leg of the table and the feeling was traveling up the line to me.  I realized he would have to twist the needle away from my vein wall (the bumpy feeling)  (guess who’s nauseated re-telling this)  and turned my head away.  I then immediately snapped my head back to say, ” you need to lay me down right now.  Right now.”  He immediately did so, and two other helpers converged.  
 
One fellow removed my scarf, asking who said it was a good idea to wear a scarf while donating?  I told him, “people with cold necks.”  He didn’t laugh.  He seemed intent on making me keep my eyes open and dude, I was closing them to focus on my breathing.  Then there was a cold compress on my throat and another on my forehead, and lots of coaching to breathe deep and keep my eyes open and cough really hard.  Why?  Well apparently a big cough shoots a bunch of oxygen to the head!  So there I lay, feebly squeezing the squoosh-ball, white as a ghost, covered in a red blanket and coughing for all I was worth, one side of my body sweating and the other ice-cold.  Luckily one of the girls there was willing to hold my hand for a minute, and honestly, PHLEBOTOMIST JIM, human contact can help!  
 
The story ends with me being fine and going home after a can of orange juice and some animal crackers.  I have to say that getting the concerned side-eye from a room full of people who are good with needles can be very unsettling.  

Some days, I am very opinionated.  I admire those people that say what they think, not to be cruel, but to remain honest and true to their characters.  I am not one of those people.  Not yet, anyway.  I still quail from telling my complete opinion, it its hardest, most brutal form.   However, I believe honesty must be brutal to be itself, so every time I say something and gentle it, I feel that I am lying in some way.  I can not be as brutal as I want to be.  There are so many people in my life that can and are.  I do not mean to say that they are heartless, on the contrary they are some of the more heartful people I know.  They are simply unashamed to think what they think, and to believe what they believe, no matter if it clashes with someone else.

I envy that strength.  I want it.  However, I struggle to find that strength to speak when I am so afraid of hurting someone, or of lacking compassion, or offending someone and causing severe, unpleasant repercussions for years to come.

Today was a day where I was opinionated.  My father in-law came over like he does on Mondays, and caught us up on family drama.  I didn’t like how he and his wife had handled part of the drama, and I proceeded to say so, in no uncertain terms.  I think I was brutal.  I think I was honest.  I think I did it.

**warning:  this post will be composed primarily of whining, and ought to be read with a high-pitched tone, extra syllables in words, and exaggerated sighs and sobs **

 

Mostly I’m proud of Nikolai for running a game online.  He’s learning things that can be applied to a job, he’s having fun, and he’s getting some small notoriety for it.  I do not like it when this hobby cuts into my attention time.  Like today, I got home from work and bantered with him and his buddy over skype as I changed and got some food.  I did all the things I wanted to do on my computer, and then realized that I had been home for an hour and Nick hadn’t so much as hugged me, or stood up, or kissed me or anything.  I marched over to demand my rightfully-owed attention which got me a seat on his lap for a minute and a half.  And then he dislodged me and turned back to his screens.  Hmmmm. . . .

 

Fists clenched? Check.

 

Lips pursed?  Check.

 

Eyebrows pinched together?  Check and check.

 

I had my angry face on.  He glanced back and noticed, then proceeded to whine at ME that they’re doing a big thing today and he needs to focus, good grief!  Because clearly, this is universal news.  You guys knew, right?  Who didn’t know that they were working a big thing today?  Gosh, what is my problem?  I need to calm my business down.  Oh, wait a second – yeah, I was never informed of this.

I totally did the polite and mature thing, though.  I quietly and calmly informed him that I will need advance notice for days that he will be unable to shower me with attention, as is my due.  Otherwise, I get hurt, and I get disappointed, and I roll those vulnerable emotions into something powerful, like anger, and then I tend to sneak up behind him and smack him in the head with no warning.  Because he didn’t warn me about the game.  It’s called poetic justice, babe.

Do you ever just get weepy?  I don’t know about you alls, but I do.  I am an emotional critter but I don’t cry that often.  I save up my tears for about three, maybe four months, then I sob.  I didn’t cry during The Neverending Flight Home From Florida, I didn’t mourn my feet with the Blisters of Doom, and touching moments in shows and movies over the last months only made me sniffle a little.  I’ve been saving up my tears for a few months now, and in these final days I’ve been alerted that my time is near.  For example: everything is making me shaky-breathe.  I watch two seconds of a relatively non-emotion-inducing music video, and my voice goes all quavery.  I look over at Nikolai, and I feel a sploosh of warmfuzzy feelings, and then I choke on a sob.  We visit some old friends of mine and spend the afternoon laughing till it hurts, and I feel my face start to freeze into a crazy rictus of Greek tragedy, as tears attempt to flee my eyeball holes.  The story is funny, but not sad.  Why, eyes?  WHYYYYY????!!
I told Nick that it’s time for my quarterly cry.  He looked confused.  I clarified that I will be needing to watch a tear-jerker from my childhood, as opposed to a newer movie where everyone dies and the heroine is alone and then her dog leaves her.  I cannot handle those.  I will not be watching Where The Red Fern Grows, OR Old Yeller, betch please.  I will be watching like, Peter Pan or A Little Princess or The Secret Garden, something that is joyful and heart-wrenching and that I can cry at for the 90 minutes of running time.  No, I will not watch The Notebook.  I almost asphyxiated on my heart the last (only) time I watched it, and then I spent another week in the mournful sighs and lovelorn mopes.  I don’t need that, I need a feel-good, cry with happiness and be done movie.
Am I the only one that does this?  I can’t be.  Please tell me I’m not. . . . *sniffle*

We went to Florida for a week.  It took two days for us to fly home.  There is something amok with that math.