Literary stuff

I had a horrible day yesterday. Some days are just bad ones, and I have no clue why this particular day was any worse than others. I got up, I did a little work whilst munching some breakfast, then I went to the gym.

I spent an hour on the treadmill, alternately walking very fast (3.8 to 4 miles an hour) or running (at 6 miles an hour) for 2 minute stretches of time. One of my thoughts/goals is to get into running. It’s something that can be done anywhere (as long as you have a very good pair of shoes) and it would be fun to take runs with my sister every once in a while. So, I’m trying to ease myself into running.

One would think that after such a demanding workout I would have burnt off whatever anxiety I was carrying around, but that wasn’t the case. Instead I found myself getting more worked up as the morning progressed. I went to see my therapist and had a total meltdown in her office. This is what therapist appointments are for, right?

Except I guess I triggered some professional standard when I started wailing about what I wanted to do with Mark to get him out of the house. So I had to calm down enough to look her in the eye and promise I wouldn’t do anything to harm him physically. I guess I can yell at him all I want, though. So comforting.

I made it back home and took the course of action she suggested: I took a Xanax and went to bed. The afternoon was pretty much just a wash for me and I had to cancel my participation in some meetings, but luckily I have an understanding boss.

When I got out of bed a few hours later I started thinking about how I was feeling. Tasting it. Turning it around. Really trying to pin it down and make sense of it. And here’s what I’ve come up with: despondent.

I have no clue as to when this ordeal will be over, but I’ve had to admit that Mark and I must continue to live together for at least another month. He will not be moving out at the end of January. I will not be enjoying sweet solitude in a matter of a few days. Instead, I must continue to navigate around him in the kitchen, in the living room, in the dining area, etc.

My despondency comes from the fact that timelines are totally ambiguous. There are no dates or timeframes when anything will happen (a month? 6 weeks? 12.3 weeks?), and therefore there are no goals I can set for myself. I can’t cross days off a calendar literally or figuratively, as I have no idea of how much longer I must endure.

And I’m tired of people telling me things like “This is going pretty fast for a divorce,” or “It will be over soon.” WTF does soon mean to these people??? Every minute wasted on this ordeal is one that I will *never* get back again. I know that everyone must go through some crappy times to get to the good, but enough is enough.

I many times thought peace had come
When peace was far away;
As wrecked men deem they sight the land
At centre of the sea,

And struggle slacker, but to prove,
As hopelessly as I,
How many the fictitious shores
Before the harbor lie. 

Emily Dickinson, patron (literary) saint of despondent people everywhere wrote that. And Google Books deserves thanks for having this great collection of poems by Emily Dickinson easily accessible.

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