A long time ago, like more than a decade I think, I read a story (in the New York Times?) by a woman whose husband had a midlife crisis and decided to leave the marriage because he wasn’t happy enough, and she was like, Nope. She just didn’t believe him, went about her life as if his bullshit wasn’t happening, and eventually he just got over it.
(Oh look, found it on my first try, and it was almost exactly a decade: https://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/02/fashion/02love.html )
And I can’t help wondering why I didn’t remember this article back in April when he was leaving me. The story did stick with me through the years, and I thought of it – well, not often, but from time to time. But it left me when I could have used it. I wish I’d tried that. I don’t know that it would have worked, but it would probably have enabled me to show a little more dignity through a really grueling time. Even if it hadn’t worked, I might have less to regret now.
A co-worker in our old building has an empty desk in her office which she offered to me, so I’m no longer working a block from his new flat. I took a ballet class this morning and loved it – it really used all of my attention, which is such a rare thing. I really enjoy working with my students; their progress makes me feel useful. I have a plan that gets me out of here in November, with a whole house to fill with furniture and color and light and purpose. And a cat. I’m moving forward, however slowly.
It’s been five months and five days. I have better days now, and sometimes it feels like I’ve started healing, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just putting gauze over a very deep wound. And often I wonder if the wound was even necessary, if someone a little better at remembering things at the right time could have dodged that bullet entirely instead of sitting there like an idiot, weeping while it tore out her lungs.