I will be 32
I will be 32 in November.
In November I will be 32. I will be very nearly divorced. Again.
Part of me is angry that I let this happen. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. I guess I just hoped we would be able to live in peace. I only want peace.
I suppose that you could say that I am depressed. I am also more angry than I thought possible and more than that I am devastatingly sad. I am sad that another child’s heart will break and it is, at least in part, my fault.
I try to be happy but it feels more like a destination that I am currently unable to reach. I have these fleeting glimpses, postcards, of this future happiness that I am not entirely sure I will get to.
I am reading Open House. It not helping. It makes me feel numb. It’s too much to feel for both of us. I should have known better than to trust Oprah.
He is happy every day. He buys himself toys. He spends time looking at women that I never want to be. He grills. He looks down on me because I make less money than he does as if it is a mark against my character. As if I am somehow less worthy than he is. He tells me lies for his amusement.
I hate him but I know that is temporary. I can’t hate long term.
I love him and I hope that it is temporary.
I want to bury myself in a hole, an earthen womb, and never come out. Instead, I push forward. I look at houses for rent. I look at furniture. I calculate and recalculate how much money I will have and how much I will need. I look at catalogs and try to decorate these imaginary places. I look at cruises and airfare. I envision myself as a world traveler. A female Indiana Jones. My mother.
In November I will be 32.
In the past, I dealt with these things by drinking great quantities of whiskey, smoking clove cigarettes, and laughing hysterically with Meg. I can’t even do that now. I suppose it’s better if I don’t. Ms. Indiana Jones can’t be climbing mountains and exploring ruins with emphysema or cirrhosis of the liver.