Not to be confused with that sexy movie, “9 1/2 Weeks.”
It’s been 9 weeks since Sean moved out, and I thought I could maybe, sort of, kind of, begin, to start to write about it. So difficult though. I figure no one reads this blog anymore–anyone who did probably gave up long ago when I stopped posting anything worth reading. So I’ll write for myself, with that glimmer of possibility that someone *might* read it. This awareness moves me beyond journal writing, where I tend to wallow and obsess and anguish. Here, I process and analyze and interpret.
Sometimes it seems longer than 9 weeks: when I remember how warm it was the day he left. September 9th. Still summer. I sat on the back porch, trying to read, carefully averting my eyes as he passed back and forth with all of his personal belongings, loading them hurriedly into his car. He made several trips. At one point, I had to leave. With blurred vision I fled to my office where I called my sister, my mom–I can’t remember who–and sobbed. When I returned home, he was packing another car load of stuff. Duffle-bags full of ski stuff–it wasn’t even close to ski season!–plastic grocery bags full of posters and knick knacks. After three loads, he was gone. I was left to dust the empty dresser in our room, to vacuum the empty space next to his side of the bed. I cleaned the sink, scrubbing the spot where he kept his contact case. Then I made dinner. Made the kids sit down at the table with me so we could begin to become a family of three. Then I took a bath and watched “Wallander.” I thought, “I can do this. It’s going to be okay.”
By the next day, I realized how temporary this feeling would be.