Alone

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I slept alone last night. He slept on the couch.

And it was okay.

And when I woke this morning, he asked me if he should look for another place to live. I asked if that’s what he wanted.

No, he’d rather live in our home as long as it can be peaceful.

It can be.

He says he wants to work it out, but he feels we’re at an impasse. Last night, he said he felt he could try this for a few more months. He brought me a chocolate bar with hazelnuts.

I have not heard from him today.

I’m attending my first CoDA meeting tonight and I am nervous. I shared my intent with a friend this morning who I think believes I’m too perfect–not crazy–not co-dependent–and not needing CoDA. But I do.

I’m meeting another friend–a recovered co-dependent–for lunch this afternoon.

I’m so tired. Emotionally, I’m exhausted.

Somehow being alone has become my dominating fear. When he’s not including me in his day, I feel invisible, insignificant, and uncared for. That’s the borderline aspect of my personality. Yay, me.

I spent time this morning reading about co-dependent relationships. The “dance” between co-dependents and narcissists. Emotional abuse. I began to question if I’ve been emotionally abusive to him.

Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. He’s told me I’m crazy for years now and I’m starting to believe it.

No, I’m not. I can’t be. But if I am, I feel like I’ve run out of the energy to keep it up. The crazy has been exhausted, and my soul with it.

I looked at rentals this morning. I could rent from my boss, but I don’t want to be dependent on him. He’s been patient, caring, and gentle with me this year, when I sat behind my desk and sobbed until my face looked like a punching bag.

Because that’s how I feel–like a punching bag.

But I’m wondering if I’m taking the swings myself.

I could rent from him. But no, I don’t think I want to. I found a cute home nearby for $1300/month. A ghastly price but in a great neighborhood. And I thought about an article I read this morning…about a recovered co-dependent who, when she ended her relationship, walked into her new apartment and had a breakdown a la “Eat, Pray, Love.” I haven’t read that book, but I can imagine.

Because I moved out once. And I panicked. And bawled. And I felt so tiny and strange and like death was inevitable, so I drove home to him in the middle of the night and crawled into bed.  That experiment lasted just a few days until he helped me move back into our home.

I am so tired of being unhappy.

“But your happiness is your responsibility,” he tells me. And he’s right. I cannot look to him to make me happy. I cannot look to him when I’m in distress and expect him help me work through it, or dry the tears–again–that stream uncontrollably down my face. Because I don’t think he’s capable. I don’t think he’s able.

And that it was what hurts most of all. Because I feel like I’d bend time and space to be what he needed. I’ve certainly tried. And all I’m left holding is shame and crazy.

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