my only hate sprung from my only love. It's been seven weeks since I've been in the same room with FOB. Seven. Weeks. Almost two months. And he wondered why I emotionally doodled that I felt like discarded trash. (See doodle from 1/28/2018 Simply Doodle Sunday) Actions scream louder than words. I cried for an hour in the tub last night... not for him, but for me. Made a list of all the things I wish I had a partner for (beyond the obvious of child raising and relationship partnership):
The list could go on and on... heck, let's include someone to be in the bathtub with while I cry, eh? The more time passes, the angrier I get. The angrier I get, the more I just want him to fall off the fucking earth. The more I just want him to fall off the fucking earth, the more I see how I need to cope/forgive/handle/deal with this for Nugget. The more the cycle of all of the above happens, the more I miss booze. And weed. And I wish I had welded stronger armor to wear into the coming months. I don’t think about crying like I used to... as a sign of weakness. Tears are the cup running over, the pot boiling out, the weight needing a break, and my thoughts and feelings manifesting physical. Tears keep me in balance, let me know the triage of emotions I’m experiencing and which I should listen to first... this is what I’m telling myself. I didn’t cry in the bath tub over FOB necessarily. His face is fading in my memory, his touch is disintegrating, and the void of him is filling in from blustery days filled with sand and matter. I cried cuz it’s hard to do this alone. It’s hard to be pregnant and partnerless. That’s just a fact. It would be easier to get outta bed with a helping hand, is all. No more, no who, no less.
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AuthorMallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada. |
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