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2:41 a.m. - 2013-08-14
It has been five weeks since I turned over the keys of my old house and the kids and I began, officially, living at A's.

I painted Mar's room pink and C's room green. A and I painted her living room purple, which makes her very happy. I built new window sills, gutted and rebuilt the rain-rotted wall under them on the sunporch, stripped and stained bookcases, almost finished upholstering the couch ... and some other things. I bought my books and ordered my scrubs for nursing school today. (A. found me some scrubs that are XXS in the required brand, which makes me happy; hopefully I won't be catching my pockets on doorknobs in them.)

I don't know what to say. I'm trying to set my life up to be productive, sane and happy. A is happy and my kids are happy. I'm sure M is happy that I'm more gone than I was.

I miss him terribly. I miss him calling me "Meggie." I miss him saying that the idea of not loving me is "bizarro to (his) world. I miss him sweet and sleepy in the morning. I miss his mischievous little-boy grin. I miss the way I always felt calm when he touched me. I miss talking to him all night. I miss feeling like we could do anything we dreamed of, together.

I miss being a family.

I miss him calling me "The Martha Stewart of (wherever we were living at the time). I miss him being better at many things than I am -- better and smarter and faster and bolder than anyone I've ever known. I miss him laying his head on my lap.

I miss him making me feel smart, and beautifu, and wanted, and a part of him. I miss knowing that he was the one thing I could aways count on -- my completed sentence, my harbor, my home.

I tell myself that there is no good talking or even thinking about this. What good could verbalizing it possibly do? Or even mentally acknowledgeing it? I love her and I make her happy. She deserves to be loved and made happy more than anyone I've ever met; therefore I ought to be walking directly ahead into "healthy, sane, loving, giving, RARE relationship" instead of staring brokenheartedly back at the relationship I had with Matt.

There is no point. No point in missing him. No point in picturing over and over the man who was mine -- ME, really -- in someone else's arms, and feeing sucker-punched in the stomach every time. (Yes, this feeling does fade with time; it used to be a freight train instead of a sucker punch and before that it was Hiroshima and Nagasaki.)

Sometimes I still expect him to walk in the door at any minute, smelling like laundry detergent and cold air, loosening his tie.

Sometimes that still seems far more realistic than the alternative -- that he really doesn't love, need or want me anymore.

I lie awake at night and fantasize about suicide; wish I had then, when my kids were little enough to forget me. Mar doesn't remember her dad living with us anymore; she would have forgotten her mom by now too. I wish I had done it before I met A. I wish I had done it before I met M.

I can't now because I would never do that to A and my kids and my brothers.

I've been working, buiding, banging, stripping and power-sawing things instead of thinking. You CANNOT think about how much you miss your husband when you are operating a power saw; at least I can't -- and I have all 10 fingers to prove it.

I suppose I will stop missing him, and loving him, someday.



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