It's been a long week—my first back to work, though, at least for now, the shop is open with reduced hours, and I am grateful I am still at part-time. My boss is disorganized, and it's been a stressful re-entry, with my having to ready the store for customers and make sure my boss is providing disinfectants, etc., all while I am reminded I don't get sick days. I've found two other jobs to apply for this week.
Thank you so much, kml, job, Dnj, wayfarer, wooba, and may, for advising me on this friend who has reached out, and for sharing your own experiences. (may, I want to respond more to your thoughts on the SSM in another post, but thank you so much for expanding on it here in my thread.) I feel better about emailing her back, but haven't yet. In some ways, it's also exhausting to think about bringing someone else into the circle of what's going on in my life. Maybe that's another reason I resist reaching out or, in this case, responding, even though it would be nice to have another local friend who's known both of us to connect with. This journey is such a long haul.
I've thought about the board often, and at times am overwhelmed with thoughts as I approach the year anniversary of BD. I haven't had time to sit down and read or write much here. H is also going back to his bartending gig this week—I overheard the phone call. He got a new trendy haircut.
I feel like since I've been gone and just don't go out of my way to approach him anymore, even with friendly-cashier type questions, we've barely exchanged words lately. I sometimes feel conflicted for not asking, for example, how his first night back at work went, or following up on something he told/showed me before, or, if he's in the same room, remarking on the weather. But then I think--he doesn't want me to be his friend. He doesn't want me to care what's going on in his life. So is this the right balance? Not cold, just... uninterested, I guess, unless he shares something first.
I'm feeling a bit sad that it's been a year since we were married (even though we still are), and since we were friends.
The week before BD, H was excited to take me out to dinner.
The thing that keeps coming back to me from BD lately is the way he had an avalanche of complaints, bookended with the statement that he hadn't been happy for years (standard issue, I guess), and basically resolved everything by saying he wishes he would have spoken up sooner; he realizes now it wasn't good to push his feelings down for so long and he knows now he can't do that in the future, but it's too late for us, so: D.
It really bothers me still, that way of thinking: our M is broken--too bad! must walk away!--but he's learned his lesson in how to communicate and now all his future Rs will benefit from it, even though ours won't. Like ours isn't worth the trouble.
I know his view is a simplistic one, and that he's not worked through his issues even if he thinks he has, and that they will continue to follow him until he does. But it really irks me to think I married someone who would give up when things got difficult. Now, if I hadn't read books on marriage since BD, I might also think that if a M required work, there must be something wrong. I understand, more than ever, how love is a choice, not that fuzzy feeling.
I know I should be reminding myself he's probably in MLC, he has to run, but this is still where my head is at this week, disappointed in the choices he made and continues to make. On the subject of detachment and compassionate indifference, I'm feeling a little empty, where before I felt love for him. A slight discomfort and sadness in feeling that love go... to wherever it goes for safekeeping. I've come far in accepting what I can't change over the past year, really more over the past six months. Still have further to go.
Hawks are circling overhead as I write, the first dahlia is getting ready to bloom. I am alive and baking: recently, a pie that could've been better but was improved by ice cream; monster cookies (fit for H? ); and soon, as always, more bread.
); and soon, as always, more bread.