Although I didn't think I was going to have suicidal thoughts in my new apartment, the suggestion has been implanted in my head - and I have thought about "what's it all for" about a million times today.
Today is the first night I sleep in my new shithole.
Mark works weekends on some pro bono student film.
Imagine it. I have been skulking around my home (not the new apartment) looking at things and plucking things and just in general wondering what the fuck I'm doing.
It was all fine wasn't it? I had a man who loved me. I had money. I had a future with a permabuddy, now I'm lost. I'm just me - living from paycheck to paycheck wondering if I'll get there.
I have fears that I'll die alone and my car will die and I'll be working at a safeway on the side to make ends meet.
So many people have asked me lately "But is this what you really want? Is this what you really want?"
Oh of course. What I really want is to fail at my marriage, start life anew in an expensive shithole - feel cast adrift from everything - feel like I don't belong anywhere - feel like my heart is imploding - lay on the floor and look up and see nothing. Have a job where I feel unloved and incompetent (I still haven't balanced last month's bank statement, and I hear that's important) - have no one to talk to and face the fact that I'm just at the bottom of the mountain.
Seven months. The lease is for seven months. The rent is two of my paychecks.
You see, I don't want to stay with mark out of fear that I can't make it on my own. I don't want to have him take over the role of protector and savior.
I love him. I can not tell you how scared I am and how afraid and terrified and numb.