I opened this blog, clicked to write a new post, and now I sit here, staring into the white blankness before me. I thought I had something to say, but what seemed profound and insightful in my head moments ago all started to seem more like a little girl whining when I contemplate how to say it.
I’ve isolated myself some this week. I didn’t set out to do it, but it’s easy to do here by accident. I simply didn’t reach out. It was a bare minimum week. I went to my French classes, kept a gym date I’d made the week before, and kept a rather long-standing commitment for a social event last night. But other than the commitments I already had, I’ve just stayed at home, by myself, not reaching out or making any effort to do much of anything. I haven’t even exercised as much as usual.
Why? This week the colour has drained out of my world. It hasn’t gone shades of black, just shades of gray. While I wouldn’t change a damned thing about my love, I do hate that missing one person so badly can throw me into such a tailspin.
I’m a little angry at myself. It’s okay to miss him. And it’s okay to indulge in a lazy, unproductive day now and then. It’s not okay to quit trying, though. When I’m indifferent to trying for myself, I have to remember to try for HIM. I know how it affects me when I know he’s unhappy. While he’s all man and probably not quite as affected by my moods as I am by his, I know he’s happier when he knows I’m happy. I want to have something to say to him besides, “Just another blah day,” or, “I miss you so much!” I want to still be a real person, not a shadow haunting la maison grise in apathy until he returns. I want to be the vibrant and sometimes violent partner in crime he loved enough to marry and walk forward with into this strange life.
I don’t feel like that person today; I haven’t all week. And I’m a bit pissed I haven’t tried harder to get back to that. I know better than to skip the exercise. That’s the curving path that leads to the downward spiral. When I don’t work out, I feel crappy about my laziness. I don’t get the endorphins pumping, so then I feel crappier. When I feel crappier, I struggle harder to get up and get moving the next day.
I guess that means tonight is not an option. I have a call to make when I finish this. Then I suppose I’ll drag my ass down to the basement and get on the elliptical machine I just bought ($50 used, SCORE!). I’ve got to start trying again. Making a new life in a strange place isn’t easy, and it doesn’t happen by itself. I know this. I can make a life here (or anywhere!) that I love, that’s within my power. But laying around thinking whiny thoughts, counting days and telling myself horror stories about the approaching winter…that’s not going to help with anything. I know what to do. The first step is to exercise tonight. To make sure to exercise tomorrow before plans with friends. Getting mind-numbingly drunk tonight is going to be part of the process, whether or not that’s actually helpful.
I can’t stop counting days, though. Five more sleeps until I’m home again. I love la maison grise; it’s by far my favourite house I’ve ever called my own. But until I have him back, it’s just a nice house, not our home. Home is where the snuggles are, even if it’s a crappy hotel room with a too-small bed and thin walls. Five more sleeps until I’m home again for a while, and I can quit crawling inside my skin. And between now and then…back to trying.