Sunday Morning

I woke up early yesterday excited to see David, yet afraid and somehow knowing that I wouldn't.

I made all the excuses necessary to leave the house and get on the road by 9:30 a.m. By 9:53 a.m., I was at the train station where we'd talked about meeting. I walked up the ramp just as the train was pulling in. No sign of David anywhere.

I sank down onto the green metal bench and made a deal with myself. I'd wait for the next three trains. If he didn't show up after that, then it was over.

The trains run every 30 minutes on Saturdays. I spent 90 long, lonely minutes waiting for him. He never showed.

How did I pass those ninety minutes? Staring at the ground. Talking out loud to myself, like some kind of mentally ill streetperson. Feeling foolish and desperate and sad and used.

He used me. What else is new?

I finally left the train station at 11:30 a.m. and did some Christmas shopping. After all, that had been my excuse to go out by myself, so I needed to come home with at least a few bags.

I took a long walk last night at nightfall. I swore to myself that I wouldn't cry over this, as though I knew it was going to happen, but I did. I bawled like a baby for over three miles. Could barely walk through the darkened streets of my neighborhood. The mascara I had so carefully applied that morning wound down my cheeks like black claw marks.

Hoping things were different. But I guess not.

When I got home from my walk, it was time to make dinner. I hadn't eaten a crumb of anything all day long. Wasn't even hungry, really, but I knew I had to eat something. So I made pasta for R. and me. Picked at it while R. kept looking at me and asking what was wrong. I wound up screaming at him and then apologizing profusely. Told him I was just tired and had a pounding headache. At least that part was true.

How easily the lies slid out of my mouth.

I took another Klonopin at 7:30 p.m. and went to bed. Read my old diary from 1998 and it could've been describing my emotions last night as well: the loneliness, the pain, the emptiness, the anger, the frustration, the despair that I felt whenever D. pulled one of his frequent disappearing acts.

But soon enough the pill kicked in, and I was blessed with a deep, dreamless sleep until 8 a.m. this morning.

I wandered downstairs to the kitchen and opened the blinds to a dull, overcast sky. R. followed me, came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. Asked me to come back to bed with him, that maybe we could do some "nasty things" together. I nearly snorted in disbelief and disgust. What fucking great timing he has. The man hasn't bothered with me in months, but he goes and picks the day after I have my heart completely wrenched from me to ask for sex.

I allowed him to lead me back upstairs and lay me down on the bed. I was trying to be the dutiful wife, but I found myself giving him orders, telling him how to kiss me, how to hold me, how to position his arms...so that if I closed my eyes, I could just pretend it was David kissing me and holding me.

It failed miserably. After ten minutes of struggling, I finally sat up and told him it wasn't working for me. R. asked me twice what was on my mind.

It took every atom of my willpower to keep from saying, "David."

I am broken.

I know better than to believe it's a personal insult. David didn't show up not because he doesn't love me--I do believe he loves me, or at least I'd like to believe it--but he doesn't love me as much as he loves cocaine.

That's how it always was, and that is how it always will be.