It's funny. I'm the one who coerced Chillymama into starting these blogs in the first place. And man oh man, just look how much the girl has written! On the flip side, look how much I haven't written. Me, the perpetual writer, the eternal editor, the diarrhea of the computer keyboard gal. This last year has been a hell just full of writing fodder - coming to the final realization that things were never going to change, that this was my life forever and ever amen, taking a deep breath, moving out (without a job, mind you), filing for divorce after 26 years of marriage, living with Chilly for a month, renting my first apartment alone. Weirdly, I have no desire to write about any of it. I don't know why.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I do have a few close friends I share parts of the story with. Sharing it with the world, however, feels about as enticing as munching on head cheese.
I did finally cry, though. 4 months after leaving, with nary a tear to be seen, I picked up a copy of the book The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks and sobbed my heart out. I guess I've cried so much during the last 6, dying years, I'd done my grieving already. And I don't even know what I was really crying about. The storyline? Me? Him? Lost dreams perhaps? The memory of what once was?
The music of divorce does play through my head. The aptly named D-I-V-O-R-C-E by Tammy Wynette, for instance. The Dance by Garth Brooks is quite apropos. Don't Answer Me by Alan Parsons Project is nearly perfect. And I've thought about sending this one to almost-ex about a hundred times now. As a final-attempt-at-explanation goodbye note.
Thing is, I doubt he'd get it.
