Starting to Function Again

Authentic vs. False Self Jealousy vs. Compersion (Podcast)

Starting to Function Again

(Extremely personal and raw. Consider yourself warned.)

I dyed my hair today. First time in I can’t remember how long. Since even before the break up. Even gave myself some cute goth bangs.

Doesn’t seem like it should be a big deal, but it was. It means I’m functioning again, or at least starting to function again. I did some research and recorded a podcast, too. Earlier this week, I actually worked on a new story line for two hours and wrote a poem.

I’m getting better.

Mornings are still the hardest, which is why I’m staying up late tonight to work. Sometimes I find it impossible to get out of bed, but other days it’s not as hard. After I force myself to stop remembering how I’d lay next to him in the mornings before we’d make love and meditate; after I force myself to stop thinking about what I could’ve done differently that last week; after I stop asking impossible questions about the untimely end and if any of it was real, I get up, shower, and meditate.

And I smile alone.

I’ve been going out a lot, meeting new people and spending time in nature, hiking and swimming, so I’m not online too often except via my iPhone. Not running as much as I’d like to be. Eating more than maintaining my weight requires. Drinking way too many mochas. Therapy twice a week, plus calls in between when things get too hard and the best solution to the pain or emptiness or utter exhaustion begins to look too much like a noose. Talking and texting with as many people as will talk and text with me. Helps pass the time as I continue to heal.

10 weeks.

Since the split, I haven’t really been able to have sex. That’s sucked. Twice, only. Neither time was with my husband. We tried once, but it resulted in a severe breakdown. We have too deep an emotional connection between us for physical intimacy at the moment, which sounds silly, but the damage caused by the auctioneer is so extensive, that I can’t engage in such an intimate act with someone I deeply care about. It’s too much. More fun effects of the PTSD. My husband, of course, has been nothing but supportive. He just held me and reassured me that it was okay through my embarrassed apologies, telling me that I was exorcising a demon.

That feels pretty accurate.

So for now it has to be relatively casual and meaningless. Just a biological release. I really don’t like meaningless sex, so I haven’t sought it often. It’s ultimately not fulfilling. Besides, it’s not even the sex I miss as much as the affection and attention. The presence. The acceptance. The intimacy and love. But those things are much harder to find than just sex. Baby steps. Such is recovery.

And yet, still there are days that I fantasize the auctioneer will apologize. Ridiculous, really. He never apologized for anything. Not even once that I can recall. It was never his fault, of course. Never his responsibility. It was always mine.

Sometimes I wonder if there would be any chance of reconciliation. If it was somehow all a huge misunderstanding. If he could take responsibility for his part of it and work to rebuild trust with me, and with my husband. Wonder if…Wonder if…Wonder if…

My psychiatrist says this thinking is part of the trauma bond, and that it will lessen with time.

So, I continue to heal. Wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Wonder if I’ll ever be able to see him again without fearing more pain. He sent an email a few weeks back after I specifically requested he didn’t contact me because it hurt me so much when he did, especially because the first time I had heard from him in six weeks didn’t contain even one kind word. I didn’t read that first email, and I didn’t read the second either, as just seeing it slip past the delete filter was enough to send me into a panic. My husband couldn’t read it either, as it made him so angry that the auctioneer even sent it after I made it clear that I felt violated all over again when I heard from him.

That’s how much he cares about hurting me.

Still, I wonder if we could sit down and have coffee together and just talk. Wonder if talking would help me heal or make it worse. Maybe when I’m truly past it and I no longer care. By then I’ll be in another state, maybe another country. Until then, I continue to wonder why I’d even consider it. Honestly.

Wonder if he ever misses me. Wonder if he’ll just text one day and say so.

Wonder if he’ll ever realize how beautiful and rare we were.

Unlikely.

But I realize it, and it’s agonizing.

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels

The dizzy dancing way you feel

As ev’ry fairy tale comes real

I’ve looked at love that way

But now it’s just another show

You leave ‘em laughing when you go

And if you care, don’t let them know

Don’t give yourself away

I’ve looked at love from both sides now

From give and take, and still somehow

It’s love’s illusions I recall

I really don’t know love at all

So I’m done with love for a good long while. I’ll stick to writing about love for now and work on healing enough that I can once again make love with my own husband without crying.

Tears and fears and feeling proud

To say “I love you” right out loud

Dreams and schemes and circus crowds

I’ve looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange

They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed

Well something’s lost, but something’s gained

In living every day

I’ve looked at life from both sides now

From win and lose and still somehow

It’s life’s illusions I recall

I really don’t know life at all

I’ve looked at life from both sides now

From up and down, and still somehow

It’s life’s illusions I recall

I really don’t know life at all. (Mitchell)