A few weeks ago I came home from a business trip. I’d had a really good day. I got to do something that I loved, I had fun doing it. I got to teach some people about how to make their lives better. I got to drive home on a sunny Alberta day. That’s a pretty good day. Oh, and there was pie. Cherry pie.
I let myself into my dark and empty house and . . . well, the dog barked. The cats wanted their dinner. No one really cared about my day or the sunset or the fact that there was pie. I fed the animals. I watched some TV. I did some readings for school. I think I might have gone to the gym.
Owen was at his girlfriend’s (yes, I’ve met her. She’s lovely. The divorce had nothing to do with her. I wish them both the best. Yes, I actually mean that. Yes, all of it.)
This is my life now. And it’s, well, it’s ok. Except for the moments where I want to tell someone about something. If I could have phoned a friend. I could have done many things, but I didn’t. I watched TV, I went to the gym, I had a glass of wine.
It’s tough. The good days and the bad. The days when I am tired, when I don’t want to shovel the snow, make another dinner I will eat alone. The days when I want to complain to someone. For a month now I’ve sucked it up. It didn’t seem that I had the “right” to complain about being alone when I decided I wanted a divorce. A divorce is pretty much “leave me alone” country.
But here’s the thing. Feelings are just feelings. They aren’t right or wrong. Being alone sucks even if it’s the necessary step to happiness. I asked for a divorce in part because I couldn’t do the thin strand of unhappy any longer. I have been setting myself on fire to keep other people warm for most of my life. It’s kind of my natural inclination. I’ve stopped doing that.
It occurs to me, I have to figure out how to keep myself warm too.