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December 2, 2005

That Boy's Just A Walkaway Joe

I have to be at work in five hours. Can't sleep. The cabernet is nice but not a great conversationalist.

Last night was Stitch 'n Bitch, but I wasn't all there, not present, most of me was someplace else trying to keep it all together. I discovered an hour into the evening that I didn't have my camera, don't have it, where is it? Where has everything gone? Misplaced. I really wanted to go to SNB last night, especially to meet Denise (who I called Diane. Twice. Because although I have corresponded with this amazing lady for months, I apparently have stopped functioning in the real world and am now assigning names to people based on... my recollections of grade-school friends? Poetry? Famous Woody Allen actresses?)

Denise brought two huge bags of toys for me to send to Haji. If my camera hasn't divorced me for greener pastures, I will take photos upon its reappearance. I was instantly humbled, thank you Denise. It was so nice to meet you!

There's a reason for my disconnect, of course. It's humiliating. Aren't the roots of all nervous breakdowns steeped in embarrassing details?

Yesterday was payday, and so I sent off another $400 to the lawyer. (Love is grand, divorce is twenty grand.) Then I realized that Divorce Day, is.. Oh My God. Soon.

Monday.

And I began to panic -- you feel a deep horrible (terribly unladylike) scream and it's trapped inside the pit of your stomach, and you are desperately trying to keep it inside, way down there, because no it would not be OK to begin screaming at your desk at Corporate Job, Inc. It would be, in fact, Very Bad.

It was the first daytime panic I'd had in a long time. It followed me around all day, even to Stitch 'n Bitch, where I prattled on aimlessly about... I can't remember. Ridiculous nonsense. None of it matters. I was maybe a bit shrill.

Panic isn't new of course, and maybe it isn't panic at all? Just anxiety or horror or humiliation? The middle-of-the-night panic started up again about a month ago. Until then, things had really improved -- I was even sleeping more. Almost five hours a night.

Then just a few nights before Halloween (is it any coincidence? My anniversary was October 25) I sat bolt-upright in bed, couldn't breathe. Scared the cats half to death, I can tell you that. Sobakowa was not pleased.

The daytime panic is back, now, too. It's just under the surface. People can sense it. Realization of impending finality and actual divorce is fully a white-knuckle attempt to hold back a scream.

Which is crazy, right? I don't want him back. I don't want to go back in time. I've grown up, made new friends, learned to stop lying, stop pretending my life is perfect, stop forcing a broken relationship into a Christmas card mold, to hell with it, live out loud.

But still.
Panic.
Monday.
Can't stop it from coming (but I want to).

I have decided to deal with this problem the same way I deal with all problems: throw money at it. Usually I buy shoes, but this is a strong panic. Looking at my closet and all my cute shoes could not calm me down, not one bit, those boots, maybe were made for walking? That boy was a walkaway joe. Born to be a leaver tell you from the word go.

(I hope whatever I buy has no-interest financing. Because while I adore throwing money at a problem, it is significantly harder to do when there is no money.)

Posted by laurie at December 2, 2005 1:18 AM