I don’t like to go to bed. There’s nothing to do there but think and possibly cry. Last night I didn’t cry (I guess that should be called a success, right?) but I thought. And I hoped.
Hope scares me. Hope makes me want what I might not be able to have. But still I hope. I thought about what it might be like when we see each other again for the first time. I thought about how happy (I think) we’ll both be. I thought about how awkward it might feel. He’s not really my Sir right now. That’s what He had to withdraw the most from because that’s where the most responsibility and time came from. I treat Him (here and in other ways) like He is, but He’s not really.
Would we know how to deal with one another in a vanilla way? Would we simply act as the friends we were in the beginning? Would I be able to keep a physical distance – I don’t think I’m capable of it. Why are these thoughts even important? Because in a few weeks, there is a possibility I will be able to travel (without my children) and if the stars align, I know where I’ll request to visit. I won’t worry about it until it gets closer, and I’ll wait to see what our interactions are like. But, if its something that won’t make life harder for Him, I’ll let Him know that I want to come that way – and we’ll see what He says.
But in the meantime, it’s what I thought about when I finally went to bed last night. I eventually fell asleep, but I didn’t stay asleep. I never do anymore. I toss and turn. I wake up every couple of hours and then I think for a while before sleep claims me again. And I wake up tired. Very tired.
I’m hoping that when I get home from this Thanksgiving holiday, I can spend my days exhausting myself so that bed isn’t the enemy but the release. I think so much during the day, that I can’t handle the torture of thinking so much at night. If I just go, go, go during the day, maybe the night won’t matter. Maybe I will be allowed the luxury of collapsing into oblivion at night.
Food is a problem too. I like food, I like to eat. Since I still have 20 pounds to lose, clearly food likes me too. Not lately. Everything I’ve eaten has made me sick. Miserably sick. To the point that I don’t really want to eat – but I know I need to. He would kick my ass if I let myself get sick – if He found out, of course. But food making me sick to my stomach was not the weight loss plan I had in mind. Maybe it’s just the initial shock. Maybe it’s just the stress. Maybe it’s one of life’s great ironies that the one thing I would normally turn to for comfort is turning against me and providing no comfort at all.
The things that should offer me solace are my enemies right now. And I haven’t figured out yet where to find comfort.