Doing what I'm supposed to do. Moving. Doing. Writing. Cleaning up, throwing away things that are too emotionally charged to keep around, re-claiming other things as "mine" not "ours." Tag-teaming a snark-fest with Amber about reality tv. Things I used to do before the rug was pulled out. Yes. This is normal, this is what I'm supposed to be doing. Very good.
The tears still come at random moments, not weeping and gnashing teeth, but two trails down my face that take their sweet time stopping. They'll stop, eventually, I know. But I'm not waiting for that to happen today.
Friends make me laugh, share in my pain, are just THERE, which is more than I could ever ask for. I am so grateful for friends that words to describe just can't suffice.
But under it all is an angry cacophony of self-loathing, of confusion, of the eternal "why" that can't be answered.
"How are you?" I am asked.
I feel like an asshole, an idiot, a chump, a fool.
That will pass too, I'm sure. But not today.
