Cleaning out alone
I got sapovirus last week. I'm lighter and very cleaned out.
Today the movers are emptying my home for the last 30 years. 5 guys, and lots of packing tape. They really do a nice job.
There's nowhere to sit.
I've never felt more alone in my life. Sadness is such a familiar friend I don't even notice that today. (Except the exhaustion that travels in pairs with depression—that's always with me.)
Loneliness is in ascension standing in the corner of my old dining room, which is empty. So many dinner parties and guests and laughter. That's over.
My ex took the two most valuable things we owned together last week. She reminds me of the cheapskate I bought my last boat from. Unhappy with the negotiated price, he returned to the boat the night before and removed the 14' dinghy from its cradle on the roof deck.
My ex apparently felt the same—unhappy with the settlement her lawyers took 2 years to pummel to death? Who knows. The cat has her tongue. Stealing from me probably feels more normal than communicating with me. Or offering help. Easier for her if she can make me into the demon? Stealing from asshole men like me is easier than caring for friends you've dumped and trash talked and gaslighted for decades.
So strange this surreal loneliness. I'm sitting in an empty apartment ( on the wood floor now). I'm 70 and badly damaged and broken by trauma. I can barely take care of myself. It's hard to see myself as a demon. Just an old lonely weak hurting guy. I got a haircut last week. And my teeth cleaned. I'm still trying.
Oops. There I go crying by myself again. Demons cry a lot I've discovered. I wonder when they stop crying. I'm ready to stop. I hope the physical aspects of my solo exit from my home will offer liberation of sorts. Everyone says it should but I'm not confident. It's been so long and even this precise moment of transition and transformation has been tarnished by my ex-wife's petty crime—meaningless except to say fuck you one more time in the way to her better new life?
That makes sense. She's not one for sweet goodbyes. No sentimental crap is allowed in a life defined by dump blame ghost. No sweetness. No kindness. Just the usual for detritus like her most recent true companion. Me! Sitting on the floor in my empty dining room wiping away the most recent bout of tears by myself. I will be gone forever tomorrow.
Today the movers are emptying my home for the last 30 years. 5 guys, and lots of packing tape. They really do a nice job.
There's nowhere to sit.
I've never felt more alone in my life. Sadness is such a familiar friend I don't even notice that today. (Except the exhaustion that travels in pairs with depression—that's always with me.)
Loneliness is in ascension standing in the corner of my old dining room, which is empty. So many dinner parties and guests and laughter. That's over.
My ex took the two most valuable things we owned together last week. She reminds me of the cheapskate I bought my last boat from. Unhappy with the negotiated price, he returned to the boat the night before and removed the 14' dinghy from its cradle on the roof deck.
My ex apparently felt the same—unhappy with the settlement her lawyers took 2 years to pummel to death? Who knows. The cat has her tongue. Stealing from me probably feels more normal than communicating with me. Or offering help. Easier for her if she can make me into the demon? Stealing from asshole men like me is easier than caring for friends you've dumped and trash talked and gaslighted for decades.
So strange this surreal loneliness. I'm sitting in an empty apartment ( on the wood floor now). I'm 70 and badly damaged and broken by trauma. I can barely take care of myself. It's hard to see myself as a demon. Just an old lonely weak hurting guy. I got a haircut last week. And my teeth cleaned. I'm still trying.
Oops. There I go crying by myself again. Demons cry a lot I've discovered. I wonder when they stop crying. I'm ready to stop. I hope the physical aspects of my solo exit from my home will offer liberation of sorts. Everyone says it should but I'm not confident. It's been so long and even this precise moment of transition and transformation has been tarnished by my ex-wife's petty crime—meaningless except to say fuck you one more time in the way to her better new life?
That makes sense. She's not one for sweet goodbyes. No sentimental crap is allowed in a life defined by dump blame ghost. No sweetness. No kindness. Just the usual for detritus like her most recent true companion. Me! Sitting on the floor in my empty dining room wiping away the most recent bout of tears by myself. I will be gone forever tomorrow.
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