Purgatory

I don’t write much because you don’t want to hear what I have to say. It’s not pretty or sweet. It’s cynical and dark.

You don’t want to hear that I’m still broken and hurt. You don’t want to hear that I can’t seem to move on. That I’m stuck in emotional purgatory. Maybe it’s me that doesn’t want to hear it. It all echoes in my head.

I look in the mirror and see only the deterioration this year has caused. The dark circles under my eyes from too many sleepless, tear-filled nights. (I should just stop looking in the mirror.) When I can’t sleep I rearrange furniture. I’ve lost count of how many time I have rearranged the furniture since I moved. The rooms feel lacking. It’s amazing how much space one person can take up and how irritatingly empty the space feels when that person is gone.

The only pictures I take are of my kids. I think I may have lost my ability to see beauty in the daily. I see beauty and life in them. I want to protect them. I want to keep them in a bubble that no one can pop. I know the impossibility of that.

Don’t tell me to get over it. Don’t tell me that I’ll be fine. I get angry at people who tell me to move on. It may seem dark but this emotional mire is safe. I want to hear sad, heartbreak songs. I want to reread letters. I want to cry. Coming out of it means it’s really over.

It’s really over.

It’s almost been a year. I know that I need to figure out what it means to be without him. I have to find stable ground. I’m sick of the voices in my head telling me that waiting is worth it. That he’s worth it. What am I worth?

I’ve decided purgatory is just an upper level of hell.