My ex-husband is getting married this weekend, and I have no idea what to do with myself.
Tonight, I tried running, wine, pizza, and hockey. Each made me feel better for a minute or two, because each made me forget for a minute or two, just after a minute or two, the relief was gone.
This week was stressful. It was exhausting. I was on edge already today, before I went on Facebook and saw the first of surely many updates pertaining to the wedding, reminding me that it was happening and that people I used to love would be there. As a result, I spent most of today fighting back tears, holding in all of the anger and sadness and frustration and loneliness, eventually feeling like I was about to crack. I felt my body literally shaking at points, as I tried to keep my composure at work, turning up the music a little bit louder and trying for the fifth time to draft an email that was taking far too long to write because my mind kept wandering.
Do any of you know what it’s like to know that someone you married once is marrying someone else? That friends of yours, and people who used to be family, will be in attendance, wearing their pretty dresses and drinking champagne and having fun without you? I hope you don’t, because it’s torture.
You pray for rain or for a locust plague or food poisoning – anything that will make the day more miserable than not, then you feel guilty for wishing this, because she never did anything wrong.
You think about your own wedding – about the beautiful autumn day and the dress that made you feel like a princess and how you didn’t eat or drink anything for hours but danced the night away with all of your favorite people.
You think about your dad walking you down the aisle, and the little moment you had with him at the back of the church, and you wonder if he’ll ever have the chance to do that again.
You wonder if you will have the chance to do it again, or wonder whether you even want to, and then you try to figure out why you’re sitting alone in a tiny Manhattan apartment.
You wonder what’s wrong with you, that you’re hopelessly single and he’s not.
You remind yourself to not, under any circumstances whatsoever, go on Facebook this weekend.
You just want a hug and someone to tell you it’s going to be okay, but instead you have a bottle of Malbec and Jonathan Toews on TV.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, because Jonathan Toews exists in the world, and then you wonder again if you will ever not be alone.
You wonder if his family ever thinks, we miss her.
You hold in tears for hours, and then you start to write about it, and they all come flooding out.
You wonder if any of your friends there will be thinking of you.
You wonder if, at any point during the day, he will be thinking of you. You want him to, just once, even in a passing moment. You wonder if he feels regret or shame or indifference. You wonder if he ever wonders how things could have been different.
You alternate between wanting to spend the weekend roaming the city in a haze of booze, drinking to forget as much as you can, and wanting to spend it curled up in bed alone, locking the world out and locking yourself in.
You don’t know any of the answers, and you don’t know what to do with yourself, and you don’t know if you ever will. The wine only numbs so much; the hockey and the running only distract you for so long. At some point, you crawl into bed alone. You think of the people you’d rather be with – the friends and family that feel so far away, the guy you haven’t heard much from in the past couple of weeks.
And you wake up in the morning, and you do it all over again. Because you have to. You get through it by getting through it – there’s simply no other way – and you know in a week or two you’ll be fine.
But tonight, you’re hurting. You’re angry. You feel very, very lonely. You play some music and crawl into bed and cry some more.