Life as an Extreme Sport

I suppose you’re surprised by this. You’re probably wondering where the links went, did I have a change of heart, or … what? Or what is really the right answer, but so vague I really should explain. So, let me explain.

When I started writing this, this diary, this journal, this window into my mind and soul, I was grieving. And I thought I would be grieving for a long time; months, if not longer. Years had crossed my mind. Mars was such an integral part of my life; I didn’t define my own identify from him, but he was my cornerstone, my foundation, my strength. My mate and match, complimenting and contrasting my strengths and weaknesses. So I thought, so I believed.

And then, and then. The oddest thing began to happen. I slowly remembered that I had breathed before Mars, I had stood on my own two legs, I had needed no cornerstone or foundation other than what I myself had laid and poured. My strength was myself, no one else. And then I began to believe it.

You’ve probably noticed that the entries, though never prolific, have become scarce even by my pattern of posting. Although some of my life is in limbo, notibly that revolving around work, I am at peace. I find myself thinking less and less of Mars, and when I do, it’s with sad (sometimes even fond) remembrance; the pain is lessoning, and will continue to do so. I’m sure I will still feel the need to write about him, my thoughts and feelings about him. But I have found, lately, that I want to write about other things, people and events as well. I’ve enjoyed flexing my fingers, finding my thoughts and seeing it appear before me, and I’m tired of confining myself to this one area. I think I’m finally on the right path. You’re welcome to take a peek , or even come along for the ride. I know it will be interesting.

Oh, and Jenna? Fredrik? I owe you, both.

Wow. I just had a very weird thought, disturbing and somewhat painful. One of, as silly as it sounds, bringing someone else home to meet my parents. I just had this flash, this image, of my father shaking another mans hand, of my mom smiling and trying to look friendly. Of Timothy being suspicious, and Tracy being cold.

Of you bent over the hood of your truck with my father, examining the engine. Of you dancing in the kitchen with my mother to Savage Garden. Of you talking cars and stereos with my brother, and helping Tracy with her homework.

I just realized that I’ve not been to my parents home completely without you in over three years. Nearly four. I never really lived there without you – three, four weeks isn’t enough time to build memories of belonging. I had eight months to build memories of belonging there *with* you. And then the multiple holidays, events, and just because weekends.

That house is full of memories of you. I think it will be a while before I can go there without that thought. It will be longer before I can bring anyone else.

I feel oddly sensual tonight. I’m not sure I can place my finger on just *why*, but it’s probably an offbeat combination of things. Were I to attempt to pin it down to anything, it would be:
* having a lovely conversation before going to bed last night
* waking in a completely rested and languid mood before the alarm had a chance to go off
* accomplishing a few important things at work
* having another lovely conversation mid-work day
* writing a poem I’m thoroughly pleased with
* coming home before dawn, eating a real meal, and watching a good show on TV
* lighting a ton of candles and playing good music

For being so terribly used to having a Garfield kind of Monday, my last two Mondays have been very pleasent.

I suppose more to the point, except for being annoyed over the taxes eMail, I’ve not been thinking much at all about you. I no longer look around my apartment and see vestiges of you everywhere I look. I no longer choke up when I see something I bought to give you, but didn’t have a chance to, or I see something you gave me. Admittedy, I still avoid some things – the eMail on my other computer, certain songs (I’m not one to tempt my strength *too* much)…. but I’m avoiding much less. I’ve even gotten to the point of deciding to file the divorce papers myself, if I find I have the money and you’ve not yet done it. I think it’s called progress… I know it’s called healing.

It doesn’t really hurt in a present sense anymore, the thought of divorce. I still get sharp pangs whenever I think about what we had, the memories and the love… but it’s all gone. I still love you, but there is no love between us. There’s *nothing* between us. (I know, I know, that’s what I demanded… and I’m glad I did. I couldn’t have done this any other way.) And I miss you, and what we had, but you know… that’s okay. It’s finally starting to be okay.

Mars,

In my last letter, I spoke of pain. Of misery, and missing. And yet, yet… at the same time, I’m not. Not as much, not as strong, not as potently. Why? It’s simple, really. He makes me smile.

It’s nothing really more than that, and it feels odd to have it be that. It’s weird and strange to even think of other men as… men. When we were married, I didn’t shut down and ignore all the men I met, but I saw them differently. They were often handsome, virile. witty; some were the epitomy of everything good and gorgeous about men. And though their bodies or minds might have brought arousal, it was muted and almost indifferent. They could not provide what I had with you.

I’m sure at this point you’re wondering about Sachin. I’ve said it many times to you already, and once more won’t surprise you – he confused me. He was the first man I’ve known (personally or professionally) for a while who actually made me feel attractive and interesting. You were so busy being mad, so busy ignoring me, and now (so obviously in hindsight) steeling yourself for leaving me. But did I more than quietly lust after his body, or beg silently for more witty reparte? No; I didn’t consider him someone I would want to sit and sip tea by the fire with, or explore music or museums with, or a host of other things. Eye candy, soul candy, he was nothing more. I wish I could have seen through that confusion in October, but I don’t think it would have helped. Perhaps it delayed things, but… I think not. I think you just needed the excuse. But, I digress.

It is weird to be interested in men again, as living and breathing creatures d’amour. Or, at least, a man. There is a part of me that objects! “You’re married! You still *love* him! What are you doing?” But, daily, the other part of me is growing louder, stronger, more dominant. It argues convincingly that “of course I love him, and of course I always will love him, but that I have to move on because he doesn’t love me.”

And that’s it. And I am. I’ve said it before, and will again – I’m not getting over you, I don’t expect to ever be over you, no matter what you think or believe. I am learning how to live without you, how to love without you.

I find myself smiling a lot, especially the last few days. I can’t think of the last time I had a Monday that wasn’t a Monday – it was like the best month of Fridays rolled into one day. I actually think I started smiling Sunday night, and didn’t stop until Tuesday. But at times when I realize that I’m doing this – smiling over the thoughts, or comments of someone else, I crumble into something near tears; it hurts to realize that I *am* moving on, which was unexpected, to say the least. I thought I would be happy when I reached this point, this ability to go for days without thoughts of you, and being happy during those days. But instead a part of me is sad, because it means that it is really and truly over.

Still (sometimes through tears), I find myself smiling.