Rooted, I used to think.

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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Day Fifteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Fourteen - Saturday, Feb. 09, 2019
Day Thirteen - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019
Atonement - Thursday, Feb. 07, 2019

Monday, Mar. 21, 2016 @ 1:24 pm
40 Days

And life carries on.

I go to yoga. I go to work. I cycle back and forth, over wet rotting cherry blossoms. Breathing in and out.

The counselling is helping somewhat. It's causing things to flare spectacularly but then collapse into a slow, efficient burn. We have talks that are awful - him defensive and yelling at me. And then later he softens to expose the person that I truly do love and care about.

I stand firm in my resolve. I refuse to continue in an unproductive relationship. There will be one of two outcomes: that we come out better, more connected, and actually happy with each other (in which case he thanks me for doing this); or that we part ways (in which he blames me for ruining our relationship that that I have always been looking for an out).

I'm setting a six month deadline for this. That's 5% of our total relationship length.

One of our talks surrounded our experiences and feelings when I became pregnant back in 2008. I asked him first about what happened for him in that moment, his feelings, his thoughts. I learned a lot, about how he blamed himself for it, about how he figured that I blamed him for it. Then the tables turned, and the flood that came out of me. The shame, the self blame, the overwhelming sadness. Of not having the comfort that I needed, of not knowing how to ask for it. Of bleeding out the blighted ovum while carrying the end of a couch, him yelling at me to be more carefuly with my end. Told him that I wished he'd tucked me into bed with tea and told me to rest. Instead we moved boxes. At the end of that talk, I was curled in a fetal ball on the chair, face red and wet, eyes closed and limp, falling asleep. He tucked a blanket over me and left for the afternoon. When I woke up, he was home with flowers. He never gets me flowers. I asked what they were for. I should have known, he says. Sorry they're so late.

So, things are softening. Which is what I've always wanted. I can feel things opening, but it's strange and difficult, and there is a part of me that had considered this relationship over. I'm confused and conflicted but open to what is happening.

Meanwhile, Chris and I email back and forth a few times.

I realize that I need to separate the two situations. Physically and mentally.

I've been sleeping in the den.

Throughout all of this, I reached a breaking point with D's snoring. Meanwhile, he saw a specialist and was tested. The doctor said that he snores a lot and loud. Which is a relief for me, because D always claims to be a 'heavy breather' not a snorer. So there. Anyhow, sleeping in the den. Learning to sleep through the night, to not wake up angry and frustrated by the intermittent lawn mower beside me.

I feel like a child, my inner self, sleeping in my own room. I have art strewn across the desk, jars of paint water and pencil crayons. At night I read, gazing out the window at the neighbourhood. Feeling reckless freedom at having my own room. I'm not sure if this is helping the cause, the working on of the relationship, but it's helping me differentiate myself. Remember what it's like to be one rather than a half. I go to bed earlier now, to relish that time alone. D raises his eyebrows in judgement. So you're going to bed at 9:30 now? Isn't that a little early? I stare at him. Swear words in my head. You sleep in until 8. I'm up at 6:15. I tell him. His judgement is thick in the air.

On Saturday night I'm at my parents' house. I leave around 8:30pm. I drive out of their street, but instead of heading right, to go back over town, I turn left. And then right. And drive slowly past Chris' house.

It's totally creepy and weird. I know. I look for cars on the street, in the driveway, of guests. There are none. The light is on in his room. I turn around at the end of the block and drive past his house again. He's there alone, reading in his room.

Maybe one day I'll tell him about this. Maybe one day I'll tell him how I used to spy on him when he delivered the newspaper. Maybe one day I'll tell him to read all of these words, typed right here, my heart chest flayed open to reveal my beating heart.

I look in the mirror and realize my navel is flat, and the skin pulls around it in a strange kind of way where it used to be pierced. My weight fluctuates around 120.5 lbs. I look back at my weight records and realize that I've lost nearly 20 pounds in the last 13 months. I imagine that all stacked up in bricks of butter.

I have been off the pill for 40 days, and I still have not yet ovulated.

I can't help but worry.

Roots | Shoots