OK *breathes deeply*, here it is. I haven't touched this blog in weeks (months, even). I was on an unannounced hiatus, but I'm ready to talk.
This is a place for whimsy, sharing pretty things I love, talking about clothes I can't afford, laughing at my own neuroses, and dissecting semi-serious issues with silliness. I'm not a private person. Look, you know my bra size. I have a post in the works about my gastro-intestinal woes. It's the interpersonal stuff; the hard relationship battles just don't belong here.
But, well, something big happened. So big, that I have to break my own rule and let you know what's up. I will soon want to start blogging about the transformation of my new apartment, complete with curiously hyper-feminine colour schemes and my polka-dot fridge. There will be questions.
Here's the thing *hard swallow*: two months ago, I left my husband.
"It's totally OK."
I will reassure you. I will manage your grief because it's almost harder to bear than my own. I will convince you, with my laughing and with my business-as-usual tweets about puppies and pretty wallpaper and eating burritos in my underwear, that everything is normal. That I am thriving. That I do not have doubts or fears or sadness.
But I do. Sometimes.
You may not think that I am weeping outwardly enough. My level of drama might not befit the tragedy. But while you and my mother and my friends are hearing this news for the first time, know I have suffered an entire year in silence, as doubts and questions about my marriage simmered well-hidden under my lid. By the time it happened, I was already making my way towards acceptance. Not sharing much about my feelings with anyone meant that there was silent bathroom crying, private-blogging, and other out-of-sight coping. I was wearing black on the inside.
I'm at a place now where I'm not going to waste full Sundays in sweats, eating Costco-sized bags of Sour Cream n' Bacon Ruffles, watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of Being Erica (and relating to her, like, bigtime). I will be OK. But please know this: it is the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever. The decision did not come easily.
Put very simply, we grew apart. In an opposites-attract scenario, meeting in the middle sometimes involves too much compromise. You expect to grow and settle into a beautiful happy middle-ground (and we did for a while), but fiercely stubborn people will sometimes grow straight up, towards the sun, independently. We are proud sunflowers with woody, rigid stalks and we are growing in different fields, miles apart.
I spent 7 years with Alex. I love him. I have possibly too-optimistic hopes that we will stay good friends. We are co-parenting two dogs, after all. But so far, so good, you guys! I could maybe write a book on the subject of clean, mature break-ups. Or at least a future blog post. (I'm managing your expectations here.)
Two weeks ago, I moved into my new apartment.
Two weeks ago, I started a brand new life as a 33-year-old single girl. *gulp*
My ensuing posts and tweets on the subject will return to the style you expect from me: "Dying alone with cats since 2013." and "Who's gonna open my jars, now!?" and "Dude, I have sooooo much legroom in bed!" and "Eating all the chips because I live alone." and "Off to get my eggs frozen, you guys!*
But please don't think I'm being insensitive or making light of a really, really hard situation. It's a protective shell, and it's how I cope. Sarcasm = drugs.
If you know me IRL, here's some advice: I love your texts and your hugs and your visits to my tiny new pad (avec wine, please). OK, shower me with ALL THE attention, aiiiight? I need that more than I let on. And trust me, it's not an awkward subject. Ask me outright. Not a private person, remember? Not at all.
(Bra size: 34A. Current chequing account balance: $8.06. Number of meals involving tacos in the past week: 6.)
*builds IKEA furniture by herself* *makes it on her own*