Rating: NNNNN
How do you move on? i can pack his things away and prepare for the inevitable, agonizing process of returning them to him. I can wash the sheets, scrub the floors and put away his pictures.
As other numbers work and friends and annoying dinnertime telemarketers slowly creep into my 50-call phone display, my sense of heartache dissipates. Now, when the phone rings, I’m only slightly disappointed that he hasn’t broken down enough to call again.
That may not happen for a while, if ever, because time is different for my ex. He’s an addict. Nothing major really, just pot. Copious amounts of it, though, like five or six joints a day, maybe more.
So many things to do in his day, he said so little time. Where would his time go, I’d wonder? I have a child, a career and home to maintain and I’m beat by the end of day, but I always find time to get things done. Why did he have such a sense of urgency to get away from me and get things done or take some space? He’d find reasons to be away from me, more and more of them by the end, so he could smoke without witnessing my disdain, I suppose. That spoke volumes, that he loves his smoke more than he loves me.
Don’t get me wrong. I know a man needs his space now and again. So do I. I relish my time aloneI get things done when I have it.
But how much time do you really need apart before you start disconnecting from each other? I don’t know.
I question everything now as I go through the emotional inventory one fight or sweet sentiment at a time. How much was motivated by the pot? How much was crushed by it? How much was motivated by his knowing the relationship would end soon? It had to. To be fair, he warned me, and I’m not a stupid woman. But you always want to be the one to change them.
Of course, he owes me money. Don’t these kinds always owe you money?
I smoked with him once a week or so a luxury for me. But I couldn’t get into that lifestyle. I have to be on too frequently for me to take this ride less than seriously. Besides, don’t you cheat yourself when you’re not present for your life? Pot, hash, heroin, crack, alcohol they’re all the same if you can’t put them down. In the end, that lifestyle sends you to one of three places: jail, an institution or a grave. This weighs heavily on my heart when I think of his future.
I really love him. I used to replace my men easily, overlap them to get them out of my system, push the old one away with every thrust from a new man. But I can’t do that this time. Maybe it’s my age or the fact that I have a child, so even my casual choices have to be healthy. But I still can’t look at another man’s hands without thinking of the way his fit so perfectly on my body, and how they felt, how his lips were moulded to kiss me, how he’s a whiz in the kitchen and made so many delicious things.
He’s a fantastic gardener. He made me laugh. He called me on things that no other man had dared to before. I grew in leaps and bounds with him. Of course, we never touched on his issues. He was too sensitive to have a rational talk about his stuff.
I’m still sitting in our summer garden, with the herbs wilting in the heat. I resist the urge to chop them all down in a fit of rage. The fruits of our labour in the garden fill my freezer so much pesto! I think I’ll be eating it into next year. He’ll take just as long to ebb away. This angers me, but I know there’s nothing I can do about it but wait.
I don’t have pot to fog the pain and forget.
**
