My friend P called today at the office about a business thing and told me in passing that she loved my blog because I'm always happy. God Bless Miss P I thought. Or rather, I'm sure I do a very good job of appearing that way, as if my roses are blooming and the blue birds are whistling overhead. The truth is, dear reader, that I rather fear that I'm done with my life as I know it. I've tried every single thing in my bag of tricks that I can must to bring my marriage back together but I've rather given up. There is not a thing you can do to make someone love you when they don't, as many country singer/songwriters have told us. I can't be steadfast and hold my head up high and wait for him to come home. I can't turn the other cheek and get on with my life. I can't pretend that I don't care. I'm just not made that way. I make friends slowly and, with one or two rare exceptions, those people are my friends for life. I protect them bravely and lavish love upon them and laugh as much as I can, but I do not know what to do when love is withdrawn. I don't think I've ever experienced it and I'm doing a particularly lousy job of being Grace Kelly about the whole thing. I think it might be that I've come to the end of my rope. I don't like this one bit and I don't think I'm going to take it anymore.
I don't even know what this song is about but when I listen to it it makes me feel the way I feel now, sort of empty and whistling inside like a suit of armor without a soldier. I think we've come to the end. I've tried to be jolly and smiley and a good sport about it all, but I don't like it one bit. The man I love doesn't live here and it doesn't look as if he's going to come back and I don't know why. I've thought of everything I can, turned over every little pebble in my brain, but I still don't know what it is or whether I could've done anything differently. The whole world, in 14 weeks has been turned upside down and shaken a few times to see what would fall out. Many things fell -- parts of my heart, a few odd socks, the alarm clock on his side of the bed which became my nemesis, cups of tea together in the afternoon, Sunday newspapers. The list could go on rather boringly, I know. I've started watching documentaries every night to distract me (some good ones: Buck, Bill Cunningham New York) & am enormously grateful for my job which fills my days with excellent stuff and good, solid people. But unlike my executive self, I'm not clever or strategic when it comes to this stuff, I'm not the character in the books that lures the young millionaire into a marriage of furs and emeralds, I'm the girl on the corner looking up the stars, wishing for the boy's hand in hers, and her head on his shoulder. I can't plan and execute a Grand Illusion whereby I pretend to not care with such aplomb that he comes running back in shocked awe at my icy demeanor and my couldn't care less attitude. No here I am, dumb as hell, heart on my sleeve, miserable. Lovely Monica who made me tea this morning to help my fluishness said "no-one should ever care about people who don't care about them" and I nodded in agreement, ferociously and wholeheartedly till I left the room, teacup in hand and realized in horror that it doesn't really matter to me. I'm a dog, not a cat. (You are aware that all people, without exception fall into one or the other category. You are either a dog or a cat.) A cat doesn't give a shit about anyone. A dog loves even the person who beats him. I wake up every morning smiling at the sunshine, stretching into the new day, wagging my tail while making the tea and the smoothie for the child who wakes up grumpy but appears from the shower with a grin on her face. And I do expect the best. And I do believe everything will get better. But today, I'm not so sure. It might be time to let go.
And as I say every night, before I go to sleep, God bless Mary Karr, who gets me through the crud better than anyone. Sleep tight, sweet princes and princesses.