Blake is back home, and the Mommy Clock has resumed. I can't say that I maximized my time, although I did buy a lot of crafting supplies that weren't yarn (and also bought yarn) and I did go to the gym until it made me violently ill. I shall have to complete the remainder of my marking in the dim hours after Blake goes to bed and before I collapse, which – hey! – makes my life exactly the same as it is when I'm working. Except I don't have to wear keys around my neck or pack a lunch, I suppose.

New Year's Eve was low-key, as befits the end of a decade that began in such fear and hope. When I showed up to Stacy's house ahead of the crowd in 1999, I was wearing a green velvet evening dress, a month-old engagement ring and a prominent hickey. When I showed up to Stacy's house ahead of the crowd in 2009, I was wearing a BSS t-shirt and my rings were at home, awaiting refinement to become some more relevant piece of jewelry. I left Mason sick in bed, but there was very little guilt; I was pretty sure that nuclear silos weren't about to malfunction and separate us forever. I limited myself to one beer, so that I could get home to hold hands for the countdown. And I brought knitting.

New Year's Eves in the new normal are a mixed blessing. I always have Blake until Christmas, but lose him on Boxing Day until the next year. I appreciated the chance to "cut loose" or whatever, but I still miss Blake in the midst of it all. Especially when I'm around other parents who have babysitting for the night, and didn't have to wait a full week to see their children.

(I'm not even going to get into how depressing it is to see all of my friends from ten years ago with or expecting a second baby. I can forgive the Boy many things, but I still have trouble forgiving the shuck-n-jive of so many years before he admitted that he never wanted kids in the first place. He's not the only reason why I still have just one kid, but he's a very convenient scapegoat.)

I wouldn't have left the house at all if it weren't Stacy's birthday the day before NYE, and if I hadn't spent the better part of two days working on her present. A last-minute inspiration really elevated this; who wants a regular elder god when they can have Cthulhu Bride? Behold!!

(We went to my grandfather's for lunch yesterday, and I was sewing on limbs as we visited. Everyone but Mason was puzzled by the project but I decided not to explain; what is it? is a better question than why would you bother? Stacy understands, I'm sure.)

The feature no one was asking for: a decade in review! Let's begin.

2009 was all about getting healthy. Lots of exercise with my brother, taking vitamins and oil of oregano (which for us was a game-changer). Lots of dancing in the fall, our troupe moving on from one-performance wonders. Lots of good food and cutting back on all the great beer. Greatest teachers: Valizan & Nic.

2008 was being single, really single. A single mom with a mortgage and a full-time job. Turns out I liked it a lot. Started bellydancing in January, discovered ATS, met Juuki, fell into her troupe. Started dating Mason in May; the summer was a whirlwind of late-nights, early mornings, new music, incredible food, and kissing. Visiting his condo was like taking a vacation from my suburban life. I fell in love with a current band, then all the associated bands. Lots of concerts, taking advantage of new custody agreements. A dance performance that didn't suck. New, local friends with common interests. Greatest teachers: Mason & Juuki.

2007 was splitting up with the Boy and fighting it with every particle of my being. Therapy, self-help, biting my tongue, lowering the bar, going to bed right after dinner, starting depression meds again. Bought a new house and had two months to enjoy being out of the fucking basement before everything else fell apart. Helping with Poppy's twins, trying to get pregnant to forestall the separation. Lots of crying. Greatest teacher: the Boy, who made me find myself again.

2006 was a new job in the best school I'd ever been in. Feeling like a good teacher again, being in love with my department and my job, meeting people who were more than colleagues and became friends. Camping with Blake & the Boy at StanFest. Social knitting for the first time, and getting hooked on monthly get-togethers. Greatest teachers: all the other knitters I met, celebrity and otherwise.

2005 was my first year as a working mum. Redefining work and home time, learning how to parent a person and not an inarticulate doorstop. And tonnes of knitting, once I learned how. Oh my god, the knitting. Greatest teacher: Debbie Stoller, via her books.

2004 was one word: mother. Making and losing friendships with Toronto mothers, trying hard to connect despite my new basement address. Trying out local mothering groups and feeling lost. Seeing old friends and being the first with a baby. Lots of frustrations, lots of love, very little sleep. Greatest teacher, again: Blake.

In 2003 I was adrift. I was recovering slowly from the previous year, but not losing weight or feeling happier. Got pregnant and went to Holland, in that order. Got off the depression meds and then spent the rest of the year reading up on parenting and getting used to the idea of living with my parents while my husband finished his undergrad degree. Greatest teacher: Blake.

2002 was the worst year of my life. Starting in November 2001, my teaching degree started to shake as my host teacher and evaluator treated me like an idiot for completely opposite reasons. Help appeared from every direction, but I barely squeaked through to the spring with my sanity intact. My new job in Ontario seemed heaven–sent, but after our exhausting August move cross-country, the Hosgboro administration in my new job made my host teacher look like Glenda, the good witch of the North. The camel's back being broken, I tried therapy and finally lots of drugs to get through the day. The new drug took away some of the depression and gave me twenty extra pounds in return. Started exercising, stopped eating meat and tried to turn it around. At the same time was trying to fit ourselves back into the social scene by clubbing with the young kids who now surrounded the Boy in university. But also there was Convergence 8, the last great dress-up, travel, punk rock bender of my youth. Greatest teacher: Theresa, who made me feel normal.

2001 was all about church. Fell in love with Wolfvegas and built a social life around the local United Church. Halifax visits for fun and sushi. Returning home, we were showered with love and glory for days. Discovered that the train was truly the best way to travel after 9/11 cancelled the planes. Slowly becoming a wife. Greatest teacher: Rev Robyn.

2000: Prepping for the big day, living in my parents and taking extra courses so I could go to teacher's college. Going to the city on weekends, living in the Boy's increasingly-shitty apartment. Married two weeks after my birthday and moved to Nova Scotia two weeks after that. Intense loneliness and even more intense bonding with the Boy. Slowly discovering the local community, and how supportive it could be of outsiders. First student-poverty, then the Boy's new job, and his days away on the back roads of New Brunswick. Missing pizza, clubbing and all of our friends. Greatest teacher: the Boy.

Labels: angst, blake, family, friends, nostalgia, the boy, triumph

As the truly long-time readers will have noticed, Sunday marked my twelfth anniversary of keeping this journal online. Twelve years and no domain to call my own! To celebrate, I uploaded a funkload of pictures, correlating to the appropriate entry. Yesterday I made the first setting change since I added Blogger comments, which is that I disallowed anonymous posting. I've been noticing that when people want to tell me that Mason is creepy, they do so anonymously. Feel free to judge our attractiveness, just tag on a name from now on. Also, have you noticed how fat I'm getting lately? Discuss.

To address an (anonymous) comment from the last entry: yes, I am surprised that the Boy has served the papers. His only action thus far has been to leave; I've been cleaning up the legalities ever since and have been paying the bills of nearly 3 grand. Perhaps in retrospect I should have expected that he would jump on the cheapest, easiest step…but I didn't. Be clear: I don't consider myself a victim here, but that doesn't mean that I can't acknowledge when things are done suddenly and without warning. It was a shock. Wondering why is not productive…although it may help to know that I dream of reconciliation 3 nights out of 5, and wake up feeling worse than ever. (Last night I dreamed of a Christian rockband that solved mysteries, so it's not always like that.)

A lost anecdote from Renfaire day:

On the way home, we discovered that Sage could "sing" "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," although it was a lot like listening to Frankenstein's monster & Tarzan sing holiday greetings. He skips words, syllables, lines…sometimes he'll produce 6 garbled sounds before awarding himself a flat "yaaaaaay."

It was far past his bedtime, and halfway through the long drive home he became incredibly tired and cranky. He started to produce the long, sustained crying that doesn't stop until a bed is produced…but if asked, he would still "sing". So we sang with him, over and over and over. Near the end of this litany, Blake turned to him and asked, in all seriousness, "Sage, do you know any other songs?"

Um. Stats? Of a sort.

• So. I suppose that, except for waiting for my heart to numb during brief custody hand-overs, I can reasonably claim that my relationship with the Boy is now completely over. That means that I get to add another milestone to the journal stats, which is that I have written of the birth, the flowering, the withering and the death of my marriage, all in one series. Yee haw.
• I have developed an interest in photography, and am starting to be able to (sometimes) produce the pictures I've visualized since I was a child.
• My child has gone from a surprise union of two cells to a fully literate boy who dresses like Spiderman, demands his own copies of Neil Gaiman books, and sings hooks from Apostle of Hustle songs in the other room while I'm making dinner.
• I have accepted my occasional nature, and stopped apologizing for it. To compensate, I make sure that my feed links are working, and I have Facebook trolling for notes as well.
• I have redeveloped a love of music not really present since my earliest journal years, and spend much more time at concerts and listening to new music than I would have thought possible five years ago.
• I have permanently lost touch with Poet (by his desire), Palaver is too sick to venture out much of the time and Preacher lives in another country. Of the three, I am closest with the one who lives farthest away, and our sons get along famously.
• I have added a third person to my monogamy series. The first is getting married sometime soon; the second will be divorced from me in about three weeks.
• I finally found a job I loved with friends, love, yarn, and mutual respect; these elements have disappeared or been co-opted so that I am more than ready to move on next year. And yet I can't imagine being anything but the World's Worst Teacher. (A label to which Blake strenuously objects, by the way. He thinks I should get it changed to World's Best. I already have the t-shirt, though.)

two years ago

five years ago

seven years ago

eight years ago

twelve years ago

Labels: achievement, angst, blake, comments, mason, music, nostalgia, on-line diaries, photos, the boy

Last night I had a plan. I would go home, get Blake ready for his weekend, and once he was safely dispatched I would run up to the bar near work, pick up Mason, and go to Drunken Knitting. This plan was fraught with small perils. First, that I had to go help do a dry run of DDR in the school caf to get ready for the Fun Fair on Monday. (Sigh. This – and telling 15 year olds who just consumed a box of Popeye's chicken in the 5 minutes it took to introduce today's lesson that I don't have napkins because I'm not a full-service eatery - is my life.) Second, that during the pick up, I would be seeing my mom for the first time since she bad-temperedly asked if I would be losing my job for co-habiting with Mason. Two days is a long time to build up invective, and I was spooked. Third, Blake's clothes were washed but not packed, leading to a frantic run-around that I've just about perfected at this point. Fourth, I had to ask for Blake an hour early on Sunday so I could help Jessamyn produce nudie photos (of her, natch.) But after that, I looked forward to smooth sailing all the way to a yarny harbour.

It was after I'd navigated all of these petty problems that the Boy pulled out a wad of papers to "serve me." The husband whose only decision in the past two years has been to leave half his crap behind has initiated a divorce. And just last week I was assuring Effie that he would never have the motivation to do this, as I was the one who had spent almost three thousand dollars on the separation agreement and mortgage re-titling. He was so passive that he didn't even get council for any of that. Ha ha ha, joke's on me.

So after I told my parents, called my lawyer, cried explosively for a few minutes, and ripped up one of his pictures while screaming invective, there was little left to do but go find a beer. Thank heaven for Drunken Knitting and my sympathetic ladies Soho, Mad Hattress and Needle Addict. Still, it would have been much better if I wasn't driving home. Then we'd truly see the meaning of the phrase "drunk and disorderly." (Usually when I drink we just see the meaning of "if she can't hold her liquor, you'll have to take her home sir." Sorry, Dav's wedding night.)

Last night and this morning I've been sleepily pondering the last thing the Boy said to me, a vague, "I'm sorry." The part of me that is truly the Queen of the Harpies is more than ready to compose a vicious list of all the things for which I am sorry, of which the mildest would have been, "that I assured you you were an adequate lover." But that's not really productive for either of us, and he wouldn't care anyway. I mean, that's why he moved out, right? So he didn't have to listen to my jive.

The following is a list of things for which I am truly sorry, not just because I'm mad.

• I'm sorry that my beautiful son will never know the uncomplicated boredom of a stable marriage between his parents.
• I'm sorry that I painted the bedroom a washed-out blue because it was his favourite.
• I'm sorry that this breakup has made it impossible for me to truly believe that anyone will love me as long as I love them.
• I'm sorry that I bought him all those expensive toys, because I could have used that money for retail therapy (I already bought a limited edition Neil Gaiman poster, and was glad to be going to a place last night where I couldn't do too much damage with the credit card.)
• I'm sorry I spent so much time at my inlaws when being ignored by my husband and choked by dander and cigarette smoke to the point where I couldn't breathe.
• I'm sorry it took me so many years to figure out that I would never have another child as long as he was involved in the decision-making process.
• I'm sorry we lived in a shitty Etobicoke neighborhood, threatened and abused by our neighbours, so that we would be on the subway line for his university.
• I'm sorry I submitted to the pain of living with my parents after having Blake instead of insisting that he man up and get a decent job.
• I'm sorry he felt it necessary to deny that he ever loved me.
• I'm sorry this list was neither coherent, funny or insightful.

Labels: angst, the boy

So, for just about all of my Blake-less summer vacation so far, I have been vegging. I had thought that it would be really hard without him for so long, and I did cry the first day when I saw a little guy splashing in a public wading pool, but mostly my angst has been reserved for me. Since the first shock faded in January, my loneliness and feelings of abandonment have never been as strong as they have been this month. I find that more than ever before, I long for the Boy. The interesting thing is that despite this desire, I don’t particularly want him back in the state he was when he left. I can recognize the nostalgia in my thoughts and I’ve decided to give it free reign. As long as I don’t get maudlin and start drunk dialing him and begging him to take me back, I’m going to accept these feelings as part of the process.

I’ve been telling people that getting separated is like getting ready to eat a pie. People like me tend to think that they’re smart enough to avoid certain pieces and they can throw away a bunch of the pie uneaten. The bitter truth I have found this summer is that I have to eat every damn piece of sadness, every piece of nostalgia, every piece of insecurity and fear. I do not get to skip a slice because I’m clever, or because I’m aware of the dangers or because I’m trying very hard to sympathize with the Boy’s decision. The pie has to be eaten regardless. And no, it does not come à la mode. (Unless the ice cream is made of tears, that is. Salty salty ice cream of tears.)

But! On a happier note, my mood has improved in the last 3 or 4 days, and I’ve mostly gotten over the hump of inactivity. It took a lot of aimless wandering, but it seems to be over. Yesterday was the first day that I felt normal and even happy to be out and scooting around the city. Which is a good thing because there were so many good things yesterday that it was more or less my birthday: first, a matinee of Die Roten Punkte that had me wishing for even more rock, then dinner at the Corner House for Summerlicious, and then a long and happy Stitch n’ Bitch at Lettuce that incorporated Little Mousling’s search for anonymous sperm donations (“just go to the Brunny and stand for a pitcher,” I counseled) as well as the memorable phrase “reach-around colonoscopy.” And Denny wasn’t even there to hike up the smut levels…we did it all on our own. I blame German performance rock and really good wine and the never-ending medical talk that practically begged for a punch line to lighten the load.

Yesterday and today I prepped Blake’s room for painting, and I hope to be done my taping in time for Saturday. I even bought him a fan, so that when he insists (as he does nightly) on going to bed in long pants and snuggling under a comforter, he might not die of heat exhaustion. (I find myself in the curious position of begging him to wear less clothes now that we’ve hit the warm weather. “Come on,” I whine, “don’t you just wanna wear your undies? Or nothing?” He makes me sweat just looking at him. And yet he springs up every morning refreshed and ready to snuggle in my bed. I don’t get it.)

I’m feeling a little guilty for taking advantage of his absence. Blake has been quite vocal about his desire to paint his own room. He’ll probably have a freak out when he finds it’s been done without him, and small wonder. Still, my guilt can’t quite overcome the sheer lunacy of single-parenting a 4-year-old while I paint his room. No dice, Blakers.

I really should have taken some “before” pictures; his room is usually a cluttered mess of epic proportions and almost all of it has all been transferred to the closet. I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t done it myself. I even vacuumed the baseboards tonight, seeing as I’ll be getting up close and personal with them before long. And if this painting job is anything like my last one, I’ll still be painting when he comes home. He’ll like that.

I’m also finishing projects every couple of days, with recent standouts being the De Profundis pillow (which combines knitting with cloth strips of text so that Mason can decorate his couch with one of the most depressing bits from Oscar Wilde’s letter from prison) and an amigurumi Strong Bad. I’m madly in love with Strong Bad, and have to stop myself from saying the same thing over and over: “Dear Strong Bad, How do you crochet with boxing gloves on? Yours, Rocketbride” I think the people around me are finding it old.

I got my big box of prize yarns yesterday. There is something absolutely magical about a box of yarn that is for me and me only. It’s a pretty interesting assortment; not a lot of anything I would choose myself, which means that I’ll have to stretch and do a lot of new things. And there’s nothing wrong with a big old stretch, especially when I haven’t done yoga for months. Did you just hear something crack?

In final crafty news, I’m wondering if I have the fortitude to enter the Summer Ravelry Olympics. I committed to doing a lot of amigurumi toys this summer for my co-workers, and it would be kind of nice to plow through them in 17 days. On the other hand, I’m going to the Ottawa Folk Festival in the middle of the run, and I can’t imagine that it’ll help my time. Still, a dozen toys in 17 days would be pretty cool. We’ll see.

Labels: angst, crafty, friends, outings, the boy, victory

It’s been a rough week. The end of the school year is always a bad patch for me – at its best I just want to sleep 24 hours a day, and at its worse I feel like my life has been a total waste. I’m at that second extreme right now. It’s like the school year puffs up my days full of air, and once that air is gone my life collapses into a new, shrunken state covering the odd, small shapes that lurk below. Every year I wonder how I could have let my life become so impoverished, so flat, so lonely, so boring. For the last few years I’ve also had the feeling that I’m a failure as a mother for not being able to shift into full-time mom mode as gratefully as everyone else seems to. The Boy has been my bulwark against the worst of these feelings for eight years in a row. This year he is gone, never to return, and suddenly that pain is breaking over me in waves that make me feel like this summer will drown me.

It’s pretty dumb stuff, too. This afternoon I dragged myself to the grocery store, and I was overwhelmed with thoughts of every trip we ever took to stock up. Every meal we ever botched in Nova Scotia, every pint of cherries we ever ate on the way home from the farmer’s market, every discovery we ever made in cookbooks and at the houses of friends: I’m the only one with that stuff still sloshing around inside me. From the way the Boy would talk in our last month together, it was pretty clear that he remembered our past as one unbroken stream of unhappiness. I’m the only one on earth left to think about the meals we cooked on our tiny hibachi and remember being in love. Sometimes I feel that the worst part about losing him is that I’ve lost my back up memories, and without my back up, how can I know for sure that I spent those years well? I thought we were happy but look how wrong I was. Why couldn’t I be wrong about everything else?

It was just as bad when I was shopping for Blake’s summer clothes. This is the typical, boring job we would have done together, late in the season and rushed. Every year we got to pick out the clothes we would get to love Blake in this summer. Now I get to pick out the clothes myself and think dismal thoughts about the Boy’s reaction.

Some people who used to be my friends got married this month. I’m in the awkward position of finding out through the internet, which doesn’t make this time any easier to bear. I just hope that they do better than I did. Than we did.

Labels: angst, blake, the boy

Last night I got on a bus with 13 other teachers, various snacks and a tonne of booze. Destination: Niagara Falls. Purpose of visit: Ladies Night. It was completely unlike me; I was way out of my comfort zone, not to mention wearing a low-cut grey dress and a push-up bra. And yet I had a brilliant time.

Poppy came over to my house early, and we chatted while I did some last-minute tidying that I hadn't done because I was busy recovering from Drunken Knitting. Poppy is such a great friend that she immediately joined in, and between the two of us we had the place sparkling within a half-hour. So completely awesome. Then it was time to put on my owl dress…which wasn't zipping properly…and led to the last minute substitution of the grey dress. So instead of being quirky and childlike, I was busting out of this slinky grey thing. Shit happens, I suppose.

Trixie came to the door when I was in my underwear, so I rushed down to let her in with a dress held over my front. Good thing we take yoga together, and the sight of my granny panties is a familiar one. We quickly primped and prepped and the three of us stepped out the door with our potluck goodies, taking my wedding boa for good luck.

Our cocktail hour was kind of rapacious, as none of us had eaten supper and we fell on the dips and snacks like wolves on the fold. There's nothing quite like a room full of beautiful, ravenous women set loose on a buffet. It's humbling. We also started the night's drinking in earnest, me with Orangina and rum and the others with more grown up drinks. What can I say; Preacher has ruined me for more sophisticated mixed drinks.

By the time the party bus pulled up, we were more than ready to be let loose. The ride to the falls was marked by laughing, dancing & drinking. We made good use of the pole, let me tell you. This was my first real surprise of the night, that I would have so much fun lurching down the highway, dancing and giggling and getting down in a 3" wide aisle. Reminded me of the C*8 improvised punk dance floor, in the best possible way. When you gots to dance, you gots to dance.

Trixie wouldn't let me take my knitting into the casino, so spent a profoundly bored 45 minutes staring at people who looked like they just came from Arby's for a brief stop at the slots. It ain't no fun to be wearing a tight evening dress when you're in a crowd that could be at the mall. Things picked up when we got into the nightclub, which was packed tighter than a rubber brick. I can't even imagine what it would have been like back when they let us smoke indoors; we were asses to elbows (thanks, b-girl!) and I grew desensitised to strangers brushing up on me at all times. In 2 ½ hours of dancing, I didn't recognize a single song, and was tremendously amused to be the only one in the crowd not singing along. I made this comment to a stranger, and he was incredulous. "How can you not know this song?" Because I live under a rock, buddy. Or, more accurately, because I live under a shifting yarn stash. It muffles the sound of your popular music.

I spent a goodly chunk of the night talking to some tall guy in a sweater who kept telling me how innocent I looked. I liked hanging out with him, but I was absolutely blunt. "I'm a single mom. I'm a cynical goth. I'm on a bus with 13 other women. I'm not getting picked up tonight. I like talking to you, but if you want to go find some other girl, I won't be upset." He stuck around for awhile, his arm around my waist, and we yelled minimal conversation in each other's ear. At one point he said that he wanted to kiss me, so I let him. Why? Because he was sweet, and because it wasn't going anywhere, and because I didn't really want to know his name or for him to know mine, and because it was Ladies Night. There was no making out, just a few random kisses, and then he went away.

I heard about it on the way back. "Who were you making out with?" "Nobody," I said, and kept eating chips. That's just as true as anything else I could say.

oh, what a night!

Considering that I saw Blake for a grand total of 4 hours today, it was a pretty damn fine Mother's Day. When the Boy dropped him off for church, Blake held out a five dollar bill. "Happy Mother's Day!" he beamed.

I looked at the Boy and smirked. "You are a class act."

"It's for the spring concert ticket!" he protested, but the damage was done. Highly amusing.

Pixie and Scout dropped him off for supper, waking me from a long nap of doom in the late afternoon. I didn't know that they were coming over, and I was really glad to see them. The Boy has been stiff and uncomfortable this past week, so I'm just as happy to see two friendly faces, especially since I haven't seen Pixie since last summer and I haven't seen Scout since she came by to move over a load of the Boy's stuff.

I'm glad to know that I still have sisters, even if I may not have a husband.

Labels: bat masterson, blake, dancing, family, outfits, outings, the boy

something nice

I paid for yesterday's storm day of leisure with the worst case of cabin fever I've ever experienced. As soon as I got home from church, I was certain that if I didn't get out of the house again that I might die. I was vibrating so fast that I could barely think straight. Unfortunately, all of my regulars were busy or we have a date so soon in the future that me rushing over right now would be pretty silly. Even Dirk, my soi-dit lazy friend, was very resistant to inviting me up to his parents' place. (I think I'll have to stop being a brat for the next little while, because Dirk's current incarnation just isn't finding my shit funny. Unsettling.)

So I called Preacher, and found him at the airport with the family, on their way to Palm Beach. Good thing I hadn't gone through with my plan to just drive to his house, Dirk or no, which was my original plan two months ago.

We've been talking today about the small still voice of God, and I figured that if it was this hard to find something to do, then I must need to do something here to make myself settled. I sat in the study, thinking, and I suddenly noticed something: of all the rooms in the house, the only place still haunted by the Boy is this room. Every other room, from the living room to the basement to the bedroom has been reorganized, altered, shifted so that the holes are no longer obvious and wounding. This is the only room that still has piles of his shit on the shelves, in the closet, under the desk.

Today I purged.

It's all sitting in piles by the door, and the Boy has promised to pick it up tomorrow. He didn't sound to pleased with my "pick it up or I'm throwing it out tonight" message, but I don't actually care. As I was packing it up for him into nice, convenient crates from my dad's company, I had second thoughts. What if I blow it because I won't be nice to him now? And then I realized that it didn't matter. This week I asked him twice if he would reconcile, once with a joking tone in the driveway of Casa Nova and then privately in my doorway. Both times he was more than happy to refuse. If he's going to point to this latest ultimatum as proof positive that I'm unreasonable, well. Actually being nice never goes to my credit, so why not play the bitch?

At least I'm not borrowing a trebuchet from Team Sundridge to fling flaming JUMP workbooks at his apartment windows, which was my first plan last month.

cosmic pluto's socks pose with the boy's crap

Labels: angst, house rich, the boy

Listening to a lot of music these days, as always. I've been unusually pleased with the albums I bought two weeks ago, and I think I figured out why this morning. I finally have something that the Boy doesn't know about. In some ways the worst aspect of our separation is that he started keeping secrets right away, while he was still living with us and our lives were open to him. Now that he's gone, I'm curious about all manner of things. Is his bathroom as filthy as it was when we dated? Is he cooking real food or stir-fries and pasta? Is he already dating? Is he thinking about dating? Does he spend as much time thinking about us as we do thinking and talking about him?

These are questions I won't ask, nor would I trust his answers. (See above, re: secrets.) Music was/is a big part of what we have in common, and there is something about having music he's never heard that makes me feel a little less vulnerable. I suppose that moving on needs to start with the feeling that I don't need him to enjoy Arcade Fire with me if I'm to enjoy it at all.

Aaaaand speaking of music, I suppose we're all wondering the same thing: how did the third night of the Brampton Indie Arts Fest go? Well, fabulously, of course. I went home for a bit after school, then went to my parents' for dinner and Blake noodling while I waited for Nic to come home. He was an hour late (which I should have expected but somehow didn't) and I had to drop him off at Kenny's house before driving myself to the theatre. There was barely time for a driveway dance-party before he was into the house and I was gone.

The main stage was late, so I saw a bit of Courtney Lynn's set and bugged back to the main theatre in time for the beginning of that program. I caught all of Dan Griffin's set, which was so lovely that it felt instantly familiar, and so intimate that he could hear me boo'ing when he asked if everyone had had a good Valentine's Day. (Hee.) Somehow I managed to get a free copy of his CD (no, not by stealing it, thank you) and will be passing it on to someone else who will love it.

Back to the Secondary Stage for David P. Smith, a quirky solo accordion player from B.C. who isn't Geoff Berner. He was a lot of fun, and there were so few people in the theatre that I could stretch out on the floor in front of the stage and pretend I was at StanFest.

Back to the Main Stage for Dr. Steve Mann's States-of-Matter Quintet. I love the hydrophone, but it was kind of disappointing seeing it so far away after last year's up close experience. Not that I played it last year, but I liked that I had the option.

Intermission! I did something I never ever do: buy and drink a regular Coke after 10. It got the job done, though, and I went back in for Becky Johnson in considerably better spirits. (Weird, spastic, funny monologue about an agoraphobic with social anxiety accepting a write-in election for school president.)

The next act was billed as "A Celebration of Canadian Beards: 50 of the GTA's finest beards will swarm the stage of the Rose Theatre," and I was beard-spotting all night, trying to figure out who I would see. Only one beard was present, and though it was a great beard, I can't help but feel cheated.

I went to the lobby to complain to Nic and stood around chatting to him and Kenny and some of their friends. Kenny is an old friend and old bandmate of Nic's. He has a moderately successful music career and knew enough about tech to get he and Nic employment as teenage roadies at a variety of festivals and concerts when we were all in highschool. Kenny is also probably the weirdest functioning adult I've ever met. As a kid, I found his company hectic and unpredictable in the extreme, but he can also be as charming as Satan, and this was the side on display Friday night. I think we made a playdate for him and Blake.

nic and the gross bald spot he's shaved into his head

his eyes shut under the radiance of his own sneer

I went back to the theatre for Maypole, a film inspired by a Joel Giroux poem and scored by Gavin, another old friend and bandmate of Nic's. The follow-up was Dorit Chrysler, an awesome blonde sex-kitten theremin player. She was poised and talented and kind of spooky in a way that totally fit the sound of her instrument. I liked her a great deal, even though the Coke had worn off and I was getting sleepy again.

Two more films: Golden Age, a hilarious animated short following the later lives of various imaginary candy and cereal mascots. Then, Nic's film: A Day or More in the Life of a Russian Furniture Maker! A Grade 12 story that had received a 60% was produced by Kenny into an OAC project that got a 90%. This was that film. Silly and clumsy in parts, but fun and weird. After it was done, Kenny got into the puppet booth to chat with Curtains, the puppet MC. (He and Nic had been talking about doing it, but only Kenny had the guts when all was said and done.) Somehow, seeing Kenny as a puppet only made me like him more, especially when that puppet plugged my brother.

Because all enjoyable experiences need a palate cleanser, the next act made me want to tear out chunks of my hair to distract from his voice. No names, because I don't want him to ego-Google and get sad. But it was the first time I truly understood what it would be like to listen to Vogon poetry. Ugh.

The festival closer was an outfit called Samba Punk Sound System, a group of percussionists somewhere between a marching band, a drum circle and a house party. They encouraged dancing, and when they started up, I knew that all my time in the hippie dance circles of StanFest would compel me onto that stage. I waited until two girls ahead of me started dancing up the aisle, and did a different dance behind them so they would know that I wasn't biting their style. We got onto the stage, joined the guy who was already dancing up a storm, and started the wild rumpus. At one point during that frenetic first dance, I opened my eyes and saw my brother and Kenny playing drums at the other end of the stage. I danced over, one of the two girls following my lead. Nic caught my eye and grinned. And then I danced until the drums stopped, at which point I realized that I had lost my breath some time ago and could taste blood at the back of my throat. So when the next song started, I got up and danced some more. Absolutely glorious.

When it was over and we had shaken hands all around and gone back to our seats to watch I Met the Walrus, I tried to catch my breath. The endorphins were still sizzling, and I found that I didn't care much about anything. Even the lingering cough didn't bother me (although I decided that dancing had somehow given me the TB, and delighted in accusing the other dancing girls.) When the film was over, I caught up to Nic and Kenny in the lobby. Kenny held his palm up. I high-fived it, smiling.

"I have got to thank you. You took it up a couple of notches."

I smiled bigger, wondering what this was about.

"I was sitting there with Nic, trying to get him to go up. He was complaining about his wrist. And I said, how can you stay here when your sister is up there, owning the place?"

Like I said, charming as Satan. And I, for one, welcome my Satanic acquaintance.

Labels: dancing, family, festivals, friends, music, the boy

It's been a quiet weekend. Despite my plans for Pavlovian late night dancing to motivate my completion of this mark cycle, I gave up two full days to various non-marking pursuits and have not hit my targets for either dancing night. Meh. At least I like hanging out in my own house. Even hanging out alone while Blake is wined and dined^* at the Casa Nova isn't so bad now that some of my mojo has returned. What with the marking, the knitting and the housework, time here all seems well-spent, whether it's with Blakeasaurus or with jazz radio.

That said, I found myself occasionally swept by sadness. Denial is there to protect you until you can handle the sad; this weekend the denial eased up a bit and I started to understand that the Boy might never be back. That I may have kissed him for the last time. That we might never go to Halifax again. (This isn't a euphemism. Odd as it may seem, I am more comfortable with the idea of eventually sleeping with someone else than I am with the idea of visiting Halifax without the Boy. Which does not make it a euphemism for sex, so stop trying.) This weekend I was hit with a few neveragains, and it was rough.

But I'm still coping. I know that I have a lot of tears ahead of me, and they won't just be tears of frustration because we're bickering over access. When we came home from our last counselling session, I lay on the bed and cried harder than I've ever cried as an adult. So much of the fear bled out of me that night that I think I've become used to a false equilibrium, one that's slowly eroding. Again, I'm still ok. I'm just becoming a little different in my okay. (This is the "more different s" I suppose.)

What helped was the continuous love I was shown this weekend even in my isolation. On Saturday Scherezade invited me over for dinner and a movie, which was both utterly comfortable and completely refreshing. On Sunday I met my neighbour coming out to clean off the car, and when I told her about the Boy, she held my hand and prayed with me in the driveway. Her absolute faith in God's ability to renew my matrimony was deeply moving, in a way that I can't explain without lapsing into irreverence. Last month I learned that Preacher was on my side. This month I learned that my church was there, too. Maybe February is when I discover God's feelings on the subject of me and my marriage.

* or juiced and let loose as the case may be

Labels: friends, God, outings, the boy

The only thing more boring than reading someone's diary is hearing about their dreams. Lucky you! You get both! (Don't even try to click away…)

I remember some of my dreams, others are gone upon waking. One thing I have noticed lately is that when I dream about the Boy, we are still together. Last night was the first post-separation dream I can remember. In it, the Boy & I had a screaming, nasty fight. Oddly enough, when I saw him today to pick up Blake, we had a nasty fight. Who would have guessed?

The only difference is that last night I screamed, "did you enjoy fucking our adopted daughter?" (it made sense in the dream, I swear) and this afternoon my last word was, "keep polishing your halo, jackass."

Today I was home to mark, but a certain someone felt ill enough to stay home from school as well, and instead of marking abysmal senior essays I was a big hot couch for most of the day.

And to make up for a month without a camera, here are some visual aids to help with my rambling entries:

the barometric bamboo

my old houseplant, Beryl & her roommate Spidey

I think Beryl might bloom soon, which would be only the second time since all her original flowers fell off

I am a pony-tailed monster!

Labels: blake, house rich, the boy

I am being showered with blessings this week, my knitsibs once again wrapping me in their skeins of love. Last night I took advantage of my first weeknight off in a month to visit the Lettuce Knit Sn'B without a small troublesome boy as backup. (God knows I love him, but it's hard to keep him interested in knitnight when he's il-knit-erate.) I always feel welcome at LK, but this week it seemed like everyone was going out of their way to comment on how awesome I look these days. (And here I am thinking that I need a haircut before I completely dissolve into skiddish rattiness.) Once again I was struck by the comfort I feel being in a knitting circle lately, as people are neither nosy nor busily trying to ignore my single status. I even got into a rant about the missing Peanuts Christmas CD without feeling totally full of myself. Amy offered to give me an extra copy, but I decided at that moment that I would much prefer to replace the Boy's missing possessions by making my future boyfriends buy me things. I'm thinking that after 9 years of scrupulous adherence to "it's about love, not things," and being left with neither, I'd like some things by which to remember the next ones. Because right now I've got a few t-shirts, a few books & CD's, two rings, a really great Rodin reproduction, and a 6 1/2 year old houseplant named Beryl whose fierce desire to survive has managed to triumph despite all of my extremely half-assed attempts to keep her alive. Not exactly a collection worth auctioning at Christie's.

Ahem. But I was focussing on non-tangible blessings, like the long hug from Rachael H. and the chance to play with a rageful Fenner and my name - yes, mine - in the acknowledgments section of Amy's brand new Big Girl Knits 2 book. I know that nobody reads the acknowledgments pages unless they're in them, but there I am! Thanked by Amy "le Knitty c'est moi" Singer! And it's not like that one bit is more important than any of the other outpourings of love last night, but it is easier to brag about.

As if last night's Caramel Baileys-fuelled shenanigans weren't enough to coast on, today photographer, knitter and organizer non pareil Jacquie B put my blog up as one of her favourites. If this keeps up, I won't be able to knit myself a hat big enough for my head.

My picks:

• Josh
• Stephanie
• Amy
• Anne & Kay
• Michelle
• Jacquie
• Jen
• Dooce
• Alison
• Franklin

Labels: friends, knit, outings, the boy

The Boy & I continue to bicker about access. It's complicated by the fact that this is the only issue he's bothering to pursue, so all of his energies are focussed on wringing extra minutes from me. Plus it's the only thing he can do and get any sympathy from anyone, so I'm sure it's helping his self-esteem to be as pugnacious as possible. (As pugnacious as he can be without actually paying for a lawyer himself, that is.)

I'm not happy about this for a host of reasons, including but not limited to the strong feeling that this is creating an unstable environment for Blake, the Boy's douchebag attitude, the lack of attention to any other relationship issue, the amount of running around I have to do preparing Blake & driving him around so that the Boy can have a visit, and the loneliness I feel when Blake is away. Everyone I talk to, from my parents to Palaver & Preacher, is aghast that he is demanding so much, which makes me feel worse for every concession I make.

On Friday I fought the rising tide of weekend-related claustrophobia by driving to Parkdale and visiting with my favourite chat-based superhero: Dirk Nightshade. The agenda was typical of a meeting with such a man: excellent dinner, light conversation and perambulation about town. The walking was slightly sullied by the facts that it is wicked cold on the streets and Blake's sidewalk speed is set at "pokey," but we muddled through. And one of the best things about the trip was that it gave Blake a chance to play with Dirk's toddler roommate Ivy, the Gothest Little Girl Of All Time. I often wish for friends in the town where I live, but I have to admit that these nights in Toronto, when every part of my social life come together perfectly for Blake and myself, are all the sweeter for their rarity.

Thanks to the recent thaw, my house is under siege by some of the biggest spiders I've seen since my last B.C. vacation. The most obvious are the four who have claimed my upstairs bathroom, an occupation which means that I need to do a cursory check of my surroundings before taking my clothes off or reaching for a towel. It's especially fun when you're as nearsighted as I.

I generally have a policy of live and let live when it comes to spiders, as they take care of some truly horrid insect roommates. But their sheer numbers are starting to get to me. I mean, how long will it take until they start eating each other? The weather is cold again and I have to think that they've already eaten most of the bugs on offer. To my mind the cannibalism can't come soon enough.

The other neat thing about my house is that my bamboo have become an interesting emotional barometer. Joyce gave me three pretty stalks as a housewarming present, and they are pretty damn hard to kill. That being said, as soon as the Boy left, I noticed that one was…failing. Sure enough, one stalk is now completely withered, while the others go on. I'd take a picture, but I can't find my camera. Bamboo: innocent agent of feng shui or sinister agent of destiny? Mua ha ha ha.

Labels: angst, blake, the boy

Yesterday I got up at 4:45 to mark my final 8 essays (I just go crazy like the good old days). At about 6, I heard a little voice coming from the next bedroom.

"The S is for socks! (clap clap) The S is for socks! (clap clap)"

Hee! Only Blake truly understands why I need to listen to a good Homestar song over and over, because he wants to do the same thing. And in honour of our earworm, I changed the banner.

Things are pretty static around here. The Boy & I have switched to email negotiations, as talking to him in person about anything of importance makes me pretty angry pretty fast. He showed up on Sunday to drop off Blake and he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. As soon as he was gone, mine went into the china hutch. I find myself touching the place it used to be on my finger a lot.

I'm having a hard week. I keep waking up and wondering who I am. I wonder if this is supposed to be my life. I wonder if I'll always feel this dislocated. I wonder how long the Boy was faking it. I wonder if this is for real or if I just have to be patient a little longer. My hands stay in motion, ringless. Busy is all I have.

Labels: angst, blake, the boy

"Merry Christmas, yer arse, I pray God it's my last."

Well, I'm officially a single mom in a paper crown. Queen, if you will.

The last two days were pretty awful. The Boy's insensitivity verged on satire at times, and I found myself wondering how I could have been married to a complete stranger for so long. I'm learning to keep my expectations extremely low. And even as low as they were, it hurt that he spent most of Christmas morning clicking away on my computer (his is already gone) and seemed surprised that I would have any objection to dropping another load of his stuff at the Casa Nova on my way to Christmas dinner. It hurt that he waited until yesterday morning to tell me that his mom was coming in an hour to move his bed. It hurt that after I fled the house for 5 hours to give him space, he asked to borrow my car as soon as I walked in the door. It hurt that he skipped what would have been Blake's first Christmas Eve pageant, if Blake hadn't been felled by a sudden fever, and came home without notice near 11 p.m. It hurt that, as soon as Blake had unwrapped his many presents from Daddy, Daddy packed them up to take to Casa Nova.

And yet, there were bright points. Yesterday's church was the first Christmas Eve in years that I haven't attended under a dark cloud, fresh from an argument about why we had to drop everything and see the Boy's mother later that night. Seeing everybody's excitement, singing the carols, reciting the well-worn litany: it all seemed good and proper last night. And my family have been very helpful and kind, which is awesome while it lasts. Last night after I'd been jilted with a feverish baby, my parents came home with me to wash dishes and bake cookies. I haven't enjoyed a night like that since they used to visit in Wolfvegas. Today, when dinner got boring, Nic & I snuck away downstairs. If we were a normal family, we might have smoked a cigarette or downed a shot, but instead Nic showed me how to maximize my flexibility with isometric stretches. It's all about the clench & release, people. Really.

So, yeah. The new phase starts today. I wish that the Boy were able to look into our marriage and see something worth saving, but part of me is glad that I'll have a break from being invisible in my own house.

Labels: angst, family, the boy

Yesterday was hard. Today has been hard. I can't imagine that Monday or Tuesday are going to be anything but hard. Still, I haven't been in the depths of despair since Wednesday night (our last visit with the marriage counsellor), so I believe I'm doing what they call "hanging in there." My worst problem is finding reasons to stay out of bed; although my activity level has been pretty normal, I'm having more trouble than usual in keeping myself busy. The urge to give up is strong.

Yesterday I found out that the Boy has been using my car to make runs over to his new apartment while telling me that he's grocery or Christmas shopping. When confronted, he mumbled something about not wanting to upset me. When that didn't work, he tried telling me that we had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy that I've been unaware of. Refusing to admit that there was anything wrong with what he's been doing, he told me that he'd just load his stereo into the grocery cart and walk it over. Fine, I said. While he was loading up, I sat in the kitchen, eating oranges with Blake.

"Blake, should we drop off your Daddy at his new apartment, or should we let him walk over with his stereo?"

Blake considered. "Let him walk."

I have to say that the Boy's reaction to that judgement was almost worth the argument that preceded it. It actually made me feel sorry for him, and so we loaded up the car and set off to see the new flat. (We'll call it the Casa Nova, after the singles complex Kirk Van Houten moves into where he sleeps in a racecar.) The Casa Nova is about 10 minutes away from the house on foot. It's an ageing building, kind of crummy. The Boy has moved into the 22nd floor, and when I tired of waiting for the elevator, I started walking down the stairs. One landing was entirely full of garbage: half-eaten hotdog, pizza boxes, a bread bag with slices in it. I'm really looking forward to Blake spending his formative weekends in this smelly, stained rattletrap.

On the other hand, I couldn't have picked a better place to contrast a life apart with a life shared with me.

Anyway, the evasiveness continues, unpleasantly. I keep stumbling over things he's done, or getting surprise requests. I have to ask him directly, often repeatedly, when things will be moved out, or where he's going with Blake. It's like living with a war censor, or a particularly mulish teenager. The best part is that when I ask for full details, he starts telling me that he doesn't need to submit itineraries to me for approval. This is such a helpful attitude when coupled with a sudden request to take Blake out for hours, I can't even tell you.

Other than that, Christmas continues, my friends and family are supportive, and Blake is still Blake. Last night I went to a party thrown by NotAnArtist and wallowed in both sympathy and shortbread. Today I learned that Mason has a baby. I'm going to let him pick the pseudonym, but I can say that everything looks a-ok: fingers, toes, and that put-out expression particular to newborns. This year my Christmas present will be snuggling him.

Labels: angst, bat masterson, blake, friends, the boy

One of the worst parts of all this is how little energy I have for anything. When I get home, it's about all I can do to make supper and do a little bit of cleaning up. It's not that I'm tired, although some days I'm so fucking tired that I can barely see straight. It's just that I'm not interested in anything. Not writing, not knitting, not movies, not my Buffy DVD's, not even the 'net. It's six thirty and I'm thinking about going to bed with a book. The boredom – when I used to bemoan losing even a second of the night – is palpable. It's times like this when I really wish that I had teevee. Just think: a steady stream of nonsense, distracting me from that box in my peripheral vision that's starting to fill up with the Boy's possessions.

Yup. That kind of distraction would be good right about now.

Labels: angst, the boy

Blake's Christmas concert was last night. O Christmas concert of preschool awesomeness, I sing of thee! There were many acts that blew me away. There were the SK's with a girl dressed like a Christmas tree who danced alone the entire song (me: "I want to be her.") There were the Toddlers dressed as snowflakes who stood amazed while their teachers tried to get them to shake glow sticks (except the one kid who cried unremittingly until muffled by a soother). And then there was my son, who helped to introduce his class, and was part of the only introduction not delivered in tragic sing-song. (At one point he forgot his line and just laughed directly into the microphone. It was quite possibly the most infectious laugh I've ever heard - and we all laughed along.) Blake was also the most enthusiastic performer in his class, jumping emphatically, singing loudly, and pulling a classmate into a dance seconds before the others remembered their cue. If I had any doubt that he was related to Pixie, that doubt vanished in the shake of an unlabeled stocking. I don't think I could tell you about anyone else on stage; the tunnel vision was profound. I was overwhelmed.

Of course, my hard candy exterior was already softened before the concert experience itself. I went to see a lawyer yesterday to draft a separation agreement, and the combination of that appointment, two nights of insomnia and a steady parade of happy-seeming families in the audience just about ripped me up. I've been brooding on this today, about what makes a pair decide to stick it out and go on with the first family, and what makes others split up and hope for another chance. My impending single status looms like that ridiculous monolith in 2001, throwing a shadow over these last days of co-habitation. I find myself wondering if I'd really prefer my old, pre-August life. A choice between lonely stability and lonely instability doesn't seem much of a choice. Still, I find myself longing for the chance to be forgiven. Maybe I'd still be here a couple of years down the road, but maybe I wouldn't. All I know now is that my family isn't all that dissimilar from the families I saw last night. It's just pulling apart instead of pushing ahead or pulling together.

Labels: angst, blake, the boy, triumph

I'm having another one of those days. Things are going relatively well; it's just that everything is backgrounded by the thought that I've been awake since 3:30. Blake had a restless night, which didn't help my anxiety & depression-fuelled insomnia. The meds are apparently taking their sweet time about kicking in, which is great, except that if I don't get any damn sleep I'm going to find it hard to maintain even the thin veneer of control I've so far held up in most public situations. Plus, extreme tiredness always makes me feel strangely lucid, and so I've spent most of the day convinced that I understand exactly why my marriage is on the rocks, and how it is all my fault. How much of this insight will survive a good night's sleep and some fresh neurochems is anyone's guess. I suppose I'm just in a martyring mood.

My dad drove me to work today, which was good, because I'll have snow tires by tonight (message to the sky: ok, we get it. You can ease up at any point.) But, my parents being my parents, there was also a hearty dose of Discussions About My Responsibilities. They are, for obvious reasons, preoccupied with my upcoming separation, and I get to reluctantly discuss plans when I'd rather be staring out the window. At the snow. And brooding over wasted opportunities. And wondering if anyone else knows how lucky they are to be loved, and thinking that I probably shouldn't startle them by telling them that out of the blue.

One of the upshots of this morning's decision was a plan to move Blake's bedroom from the downstairs layer to the upstairs layer, into what is now my craft and dressing room. My whole reasoning behind putting him downstairs was to make room for a second baby. I guess I have to face that little slice of reality, too. No Burt. No Una. Just painting my craft room green and feeling like my whole body is made of dense, fragile, imperfectly-fired pottery, waiting for the right impact to shatter once and for all.

Labels: angst, blake, family, the boy

Just had a tremendously disturbing exchange with Blake. We were horsing around on the couch and I asked him for a hug. He refused. When I asked him why, he said, "no hugs for you."

"You'll make me sad," I said, and I started making sad mewing noises.

"Yes," he said, gently touching my leg, "you'll be sad. And you'll cry and you'll go away."

"What?"

"You'll be sad because I don't hug you. Because I don't love you anymore."

"Why don't you love me anymore?"

"Because I'm mad at you."

"Why are you mad at me?"

"Because I'm going to move out."

There you have it, folks. The last week of my life, as narrated by a four year old. Oh yeah, then he bit me and was carried away crying. That part was new.

Saw my new family doctor today. I have to say, I've got a bit of a crush on her. Where my old doc was cold, she's warm. Where my old doc was formidable, she's open to discussion. Plus, she's pregnant and cute. I just hope this new antidep works out; I kind of want to show her a better side than I had on display tonight.

Labels: angst, blake, the boy

I've been crying pretty much continually this week. There was something about these last few days – maybe it was the darkness, maybe it was the stress of planning Blake's birthday party – but something spoke deep inside me, telling me that the Boy wasn't ever going to try to love me, and that all the promises I extracted from him were evaporating as quick as I could see them go. On Wednesday, while I was watching my students, I wrote a little note to myself that predicted this. "My marriage won't survive the Christmas holidays. Two weeks together will precipitate a crisis." And still I tried to hope otherwise, tried to plan some kind of a vacation that would forestall the inevitable. But I knew. I knew that I would bring it up after the party, and I knew what the answer would be.

I've been trying to figure out why this was happening since August, when the decline began shortly after my birthday. Four months of obsessive thinking later, the best I can do is sit, confounded. I don't know why he's leaving me now that things are coming together in every other part of his life. I don't know why I can't with good behaviour cancel out the bad behaviour he says has made all the difference. I only know that I can't do it for both of us. I've been trying to keep it together for so many reasons: because I love him, because I'm terrified of abandonment and life as a single mother, because it's not fair (whatever that means). But I can't do it. I can't convince him to love me again with good things, and I certainly can't browbeat him into loving me.

The bitterly ironic thing is that as soon as it was said, he let go of all the defences and cried for hours. The intimacy, the connection, the trust I had dreamt of for months was finally mine, but only when it couldn't benefit me in the slightest.

This is what's left. A heaviness and an ache that infuses everything I do. A pain that steals my sleep and my appetite and my will to move forward. I'm going to have to force myself through the motions for the next little while. Not looking forward to it at all.

7:37 p.m.

And now for something completely different. Feeling really good right now, thanks to a combination of knitting downtime at Jacquie's, surprise handmade socks (thanks, NotAnArtist!), cardio exercise, leftover vegetarian chilli and some strategic kitchen cleaning (I love how parties make you clean up before and after). I think I like feeling in control, like I'm not just moping around my house. Plus, Blake was extra happy to see me, and I'm greatly looking forward to putting him to bed tonight in his new Buzz Lightyear sheets (thanks, Andrea & K8!). More party stuff tomorrow, because despite all of the heaviness I felt that day, it was a damned good time.

Labels: angst, blake, friends, knit, outings, the boy