This morning it occurred to me that I am, in fact, heartbroken.
Duh, right? 5 years ago I married a man I was crazy about. We had a really good run. We had a lot of chemistry and a lot of fun together. Yeah, the last few years were rough, but we still had that spark and we still had a lot of fun together. In January he told me he no longer loved me and I moved out.
Of course I’m heartbroken.
Moving out and moving on has been amazing. So many wonderful things have happened to me.
And no, I haven’t been burying my head in the sand, I’ve had a crying jag or two (or two dozen). I’ve drank wine with friends and bitched about my ex. I’ve been angry and sad. I’ve journaled like crazy and even seen my therapist once or twice.
I’ve also picked myself up and gone for a run, seen a funny movie and thrown myself into work and getting to know myself. Most days I feel really proud of what I’ve done and how I’ve handled things. I think I’m okay. I am okay. Even when I’m sobbing like mad, I’m okay because I know that the crying will stop and I’ll hug my dog, go for a run, drink some wine and wake up feeling good the next day.
But I still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and reach for him. Even when I’m next to someone else, I’ll reach out and be startled when the plains of their body is different from his. I’m still startled, when I sleepily put my hands on that magical place between a man’s hip bone and the beginning of his pubic area and the lines are sharper or softer or narrower or wider.
My body and mind still haven’t fully transitioned from “we” to “me”.
This morning I got a phone call from my ex, he’d locked himself out and asked me to come let him in. It’s on my way to work so it really wasn’t a big deal to swing by. He moved our bedroom upstairs to the loft, but I noticed that my favorite photo of us, the one taken in front of our first house the day we put a bid on it, was still hanging on the wall. Then he asked me about which of the kitchen appliances I took because he just couldn’t remember. We talked for awhile and it was comfortable and pleasant even. But that old familiar burn was there, that instinct to reach out and wrap myself up in him, to fall back into old patterns and take care of each other.
Knowing that I can’t, hurts. It burns. It’s strange too, because I don’t want to get back together with him. After those first few days I haven’t wanted to be with him. I miss being part of an established couple, sure, but I don’t miss him. I’m happier apart, I’m healthier and achieving more. I’m better without him, but it still burns.
I am, in fact, heartbroken.