Ok, so maybe not that last part.

For those of you in Bloggoland who don’t know me on Facebook (oh, you unfortunate few), here’s what I’ve been up to. If you care. Which, why would you, since I’ve run off and forgotten about this place and only deign to post occasionally, when the mood strikes. (And, Jesus, how pathetic that I can bring myself to Facebook [oh, and is that a verb now?] but can’t be bothered to blog.)

January 12, 9:55 am: I was gently chastised by a lovely British man over the holiday for using the word “awesome” inappropriately and cheapening its value as a designator for true, gut-punched awe. But, dude, that truffle cheese really WAS awesome. Grand Canyon awesome.

January 14, 10:11 am: I’m disturbed that people I went to school with now hold positions of power. Who the hell are we kidding?

January 14, 11:34 am: I don’t, haven’t, and never will watch American Idol. Even if I wanted to (which I most certainly do not), I couldn’t now. It’s the principle of the thing. I will, however, watch So You Think You Can Dance and make ridiculous shrieking-with-glee sounds.

January 14, 12:51 pm: Is it weird that I’m considering “Rimbaldi fluid green” as a wedding color? I think Arvin Sloane would be pleased. (It’s possible we might be watching too much Alias.)

January 15, 10:50 am: Today I’m running with the philosophy that sleeping is for chumps. Who needs sleep? Not me, man, I’m on fire. I’m raring to go. I’m energized, y’all. See this work on my desk? It’s gonna get done, and I mean D-O-N-E done. I’m awake, let’s go, let’s go, let’s…zzzzz.

January 15, 6:31 pm: Mmmm… bourbon.

January 19, 925 am: You people with your baking and cleaning and working out saving the world status updates aren’t fooling anyone. You’re eating Mallomars and wearing a dingy sweatshirt and watching reruns of Magnum PI, aren’t you? Please say you are.

January 20, 3:17 pm: If I weren’t so sure that being bored makes you boring I’d admit to being bored.

January 21, 3:00 pm: Oh, hello Indian food from lunch. You’re still hanging around? What’s that? You say you’ll be here FOREVER? They should really put a warning on the menu. Not that it would stop me. Mmmmm… naaaaaaan.

January 22, 11:31 am: I’m a little concerned that every time I take the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m “typed” as something different. This means I’m a Sybil, doesn’t it? Damn. (Most recently, ENFP.)

January 25, 1:32 pm: Today I’m glad I don’t live on the set of “You Can’t Do That on Television” because I don’t know anything. Hah! No slime. (Alasdair, I’ll always love you.)

January 25, 3:55 pm: Hey, time? I’ll give you a cookie if you’ll speed up until 5.

January 26, 7:28 am: I woke myself up this morning by biting my own arm. Hard. Musta been some dream.

January 26, 6:12 pm: Pandora just played “Julie” by Merrill Bainbridge. Well, hello moody angst memories from 1995. Have you missed me? Because I sooooo haven’t missed you. Now gimme back my babydoll dresses.

January 27, 9:28 am: Pretty sure the internet hates me today. Or it ate too much and is feeling bloated and sluggish. Stupid gluttonous internet.

January 28, 9:27 am: Hey, People of Facebook: Stop being so dadgum vague with your status updates. If I wanted to read a mystery I’d pick up a Raymond Chandler. Or a Richard Castle. Whichever. Either way my point is spill it!

January 28, 12:24 pm: Oh, Etsy, you vile temptress. How you do entice me.

January 29, 9:21 am: I’d participate in Doppelgänger week, but I’m far too unique, apparently. Pale imitations of my awesomosity abound.

January 31, 11:59 am: Scariest movie I’ve seen in a long, long time: Band of Brothers.

February 1, 8:23 am: Et tu, alarm clock?

February 1, 12: 18 pm: Overheard while thrifting this weekend (three annoyingly loud [and shockingly thin] college girls in preparation for their first Rocky Horror Picture Show): “Well, I don’t know, but there’s, like, a singing alien? And lots of lingerie. And this weird house where everything happens. Just find something hot.”

February 1, 4:57 pm: My stomach needs to stop talking to me in Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice. I can’t understand a word it’s saying. Except that part where it sounded a bit like, “Curse you and your Mexican food predilection!”

February 2, 12:10 pm: Don’t hate me because I have a new 30″ Cinema HD display monitor. Oh, wait. Yeah. You can go ahead and hate me.

February 2, 2:09 pm: If you and I woke up in jail together, I’d construct a vicious shiv out of a toothbrush to protect us. Then I’d lecture you on the evils of dragging your friends into your fiendish schemes involving forgery, stealing the Winged Victory of Samothrace, and some guy named Knut Biggerstiff.

26 minutes ago: So, wait. Lost is still on TV? But they canceled Deadwood. And Rome. And Pushing Daisies. And The Tick. And freaking Firefly. Curse you, Hollywood. I thought Lost jumped the shark, or the polar bear, or whatever.

So, see? I’m still alive. I still have completely unimportant things to say. I’m just not saying them here.

On top of my head being stuffed with snotty cotton, one of our dogs decided to be a complete bastard and make noise all night, either clippity clopping with his nails all over the floors or jumping in the bathtub to root around at 3 in the morning (don’t ask me — he’s crazy).

I also had to get up several times during the night to let out my sweet baby George, who is rallying but has been stricken with some kidney complaints (as if heart problems and fading vision weren’t enough). He’s much better and back to his old self, but he still has to wee a lot.

And apparently Lancelot got about as much sleep as I did, or less, because he had the disposition of a Tasmanian devil this morning, snapping and grumbling. This mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he’s got to spend the day (or at least the afternoon) working on my brakes.

I know that sounds like a lot of complaining, and it is. But you know what? I’m not even in that bad a mood, all things considered. We’re broke, I’ve got a sick dog, my car is perpetually on the fritz, my head hurts, my period is going to start any minute now (provided God doesn’t hate me), and Lancelot was really kind of a turd to me this morning, but I’m ok.

Because life is balancing out. I hope. I’m pretty sure. I’m almost positive.

We are getting things done, paying bills, fixing up the house. Lancelot fixed the icemaker that hasn’t worked since we got the fridge. We have ice on demand, people. This is a big deal.

We sold two old appliances this weekend for very little money, but that doesn’t matter because, dammit, they are out of our garage and into someone else’s hands.

Saturday I got up and cleaned the kitchen (I mopped, people) then loafed with Lancelot until he had to go to work, then I went with my dad to a football game where we had excellent seats to watch my beloved Noles lose. But, you know, free booze, so it was a win for me.

I did all the laundry yesterday, folded it, and put it away. No, seriously. I did. There’s no pile of wrinkling clothes sitting on the La-Z-Boy right now glaring at me.

And, to top it off, Lancelot may have a new job. It’s not official yet, but it’s looking good. Fingers are firmly crossed. If you wanted to keep yours crossed, too, I wouldn’t complain.

So things are going well here, right now, so far. Or starting to. How are things with you? It may not seem like it, since I’ve been all absent and crap around here and haven’t been to your blogs in a thousand years (seems like), but I’ve missed you. Really.

Initially I came up with all sorts of excuses. It was last minute. I’d have to bring the dogs. It’s so hot and I don’t want to drive. But I’ve been making up excuses for not living for a while now. I’ve been telling myself I can’t for one reason or another, just keeping myself to myself and burrowing in. And when Lancelot moved out I told myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore. So I dashed home, packed a bag, loaded the dogs in the car, and took off.

Two and a half hours later I was hugging his momma and hearing her tell me how much she loves me and has missed me and how glad she was that I’d come. I only stayed one night, but it was lovely. His family is so welcoming, hugging me and asking me how I’ve been. It was good to see Lancelot with his nieces and nephews, letting them pile on him and drag him around and chatter his ear off. He’s much better with them than I expected.

After walking on the beach with his family and laughing and telling tales, Lancelot and I curled up in his bed and twined around each other, burrowed into the cool sheets that smelled like suntan lotion and sand and Lancelot. And it was precious to be able to nestle into the crook of his arm and slide my fingers across the smooth, warm expanse of his back and feel the prickle of his beard against my forehead.

I left around midday Saturday, cherishing the time I’d spent with him and his family but wanting to give him some more family time, wanting to get back to my plans with friends for that night. And I found myself proud of that — proud that I’d made time for him and for us, but also for me.

But here’s the thing: I’m not depressed.

No, really. I’m not. Even my doctor says I’m not. What I am is grieving. I’m grieving for the loss of my relationship, for the death of some hopes and dreams.

Those symptoms there on that page I linked? Don’t really have them.

• Oh, I’m sad enough from time to time, usually at night when I’ve crawled into bed and my mind is quieting and I think about how my foot used to curve directly underneath his, how he’d hold my hand as we fell asleep. But the anxiety has subsided, for the most part. I’ve stopped taking the Ativan, except for those nights when I can’t get to sleep, and even then I only take half.
• I do not feel hopeless or pessimistic. In fact, I feel downright hopeful. I’ve always been a “glass is half full” kind of person. Except for the first two or three weeks or so, when I was pretty sure my heart would never reattach itself to my body. But now I feel like I’m going to be ok. Whatever happens.
• What happened with us is not my fault. At least not entirely. Probably not even halfway. I am not unlovable, I didn’t do anything terribly wrong (aside from being human), I’m not wretched or worthless or lacking in some fundamental way.
• I’m not particularly irritable, but I do get a little restless, mostly when I get sick of my own company and need to get out in the world. But I think that’s fairly normal for someone living alone again.
• I’m getting out and about and socializing, I’m enjoying my books and movies and friends and family. And, sweet baby jesus, I’d jump at the chance to get laid. Well, by you know who. I’m not taking applications for bed partners or anything.
• I’m not particularly tired, and I have sufficient energy, although I’m never one for boundless enthusiasm in the physical sphere anyway. I’m a bit lazy. My natural state is probably recumbent.
• I can concentrate, remember details, and make decisions. I just decided to go to lunch with a friend, and I’ve been concentrating on this stupid project in front of me for a good 45 minutes.
• My sleep patterns are fairly normal.
• My eating patterns are fairly normal, too, for me. Which means chocolate is on the menu.
• I am not considering suicide, nor have I ever, not seriously.
• All systems are go, physiologically.

See? Not depressed. Not really. Sad in the odd evenings. Lonely. Missing that man like crazy. But not depressed.

My mother feels otherwise. She’s felt otherwise for about 10 years. I can’t explain it. She is convinced I’m depressed. In a lovely care package she sent me this week, she included a grab bag of makeup samples, some new sheets, a necklace, and a book on depression. Subtle, Mom.

I think she’s confusing ocassional unhappiness or disatisfaction with depression. She uses my affect from 1996 as a yard stick. She says, “Remember how happy you were in Italy? I want you to be that happy again.” Well, fandamntastic, Mom. Let’s get right on that. How about I go back to my 22-year-old self — with all the energy and smooth skin and tight abs and metabolism and naïvité and self-involvement — and study in Florence on your dime and drink all night and kiss cute boys and have not a care in the world? You prepared to fund that little adventure? ‘Cause I damn sure can’t.

She’s unrealistic, right? I mean, shit, life happens. I got older. I got in some debt. I moved around and had some troubles and lost some people and grew up. I work for a living now instead of putting in 20 hours a week at a video store and flirting with customers. LIFE happened. But go ahead, use the happiest, most carefree time of my life as an indicator of my current misery.

Things could be better. I’m not denying that. But they’re not that dang-diddly bad, either, and I’m not channeling Eeyore every day, hanging my head and bemoaning my pitiful existence. I’m not battling that black dog or the mean reds.

She’s worried about me. She loves me and wants me to be happy. I get it. But does she have to depress the hell out of me by insisting I’m depressed?

I don’t know where the time went, but I’m pretty sure that I’ve been wasting it, frittering it, tossing it aside like so much cheap wrapping paper.

I’d like to say that ends today, that I’m going to cherish each mother fucking moment as it passes, but we all know that’s a lie. One I renew with regular fervency.

Still, at least I recognize my total lack of time recognition. Right? Maybe? Perhaps.

In any case, my birthday was swell. I dreaded it and prematurely mourned it and tried to stave it off and ignore it, but it just keeps bowling along, no matter what I do. So finally I just accepted it. And enjoyed it.

My first “Happy Birthday” of the day came from Lancelot, which is no surprise, really. Subsequent wishes came from friends and family and blog pals and they were lovely and made me feel entirely loved and not quite as old.

I opened presents from my mother in the morning (hello, diamond earrings), went out and about and got myself the new Bond DVD with a gift card from my coworkers, had an artery-clogging plate of chicken fingers for lunch, then went downtown to meet friends for an art-in-the-park sunny day. We browsed and chatted and our eyes were filled with pretty things. And then our bellies were filled with the yummy goodness of Mexican food. I was given earrings and books and chips and salsa and good company.

And in the evening I went home and had still more birthday calls and watched endless ours of Deadwood, and all was well.

And 34, so far, is fine.

Mostly I just don’t want to talk about it. Mostly I want to pretend it didn’t happen, or it didn’t happen as badly as I remember it, or it happened but these things happen and we’re just taking a little time.

I still say we. He still calls me sweetheart. Maybe we’re kidding ourselves. Maybe we all do.

There has been some concern that I’ll disregard my needs, that I’m not paying attention to them, that perhaps I don’t know them. Were he here, this would likely be the case. I wrap myself so fully around him, content to orbit. But with him gone, and as he intended, I don’t have any choice right now but to consider myself. Ad nauseum.

I get dressed. I do my hair and makeup. I go to work. I wear cute shoes. I go to lunch with friends. I laugh. I have dinner with my father. I rent all the movies I want to see and none that he would. I call my mom and cry. I cuddle my dogs. I buy food I love. I go to the doctor. I pay my bills. I put away my laundry. I go to bed early. I read and read and read.

And I hope.

He convinced himself he was bad for everyone, that he was an asshole, that he broke everything he touched, that he was worthless, that he didn’t deserve love/work/happiness/me, that everyone would be better off if he left, that it wouldn’t hurt, that it was right to go, that he was right.

He was so sure, so certain sure, that pulling out and moving on would be the answer. And when he’s sure, that’s it: done, decided, gone. No matter what, no matter the conversations and consequences he’s leaving out. Might as well try to hold back the tide.

Until later, some days later, when the certainty fades in the face of reality. When missing me sinks in, when losing me sinks in. When the life we made and the one we planned go south and all there is is him there and me here and a river of hurt between us.

He calls and he has that voice, the one that’s for me only, the one that says I love you and I need you and I’m trying. He comes down to get his things while I’m not there and he can’t, not with his life put in boxes, piled in a corner and away from my things: his away from hers. He waits for me to come home, his eyes red and swollen, my eyes red and swollen. And we watch TV, talking like we used to, laughing like we used to, until one of us remembers and the tears come again.

He says he’s sorry, he never meant to hurt me, he loves me more than anything, he just needs time, he doesn’t deserve me, he’s not going anywhere, he’ll only be three hours away, he needs this, he needs the beach, he needs to get his shit together, he needs to do it without me, he needs to do it without my help, he’s sorry he’s sorry he’s sorry.

And being with him is the same, and kissing him is the same, and holding him is the same. And he brushes my tears away and I brush his away and we don’t decide anything except to keep going, to keep trying.

I can convince myself that everything is fine. And I’ll believe it until the rug is pulled out from under me, until someone props my eyelids up with toothpicks and forces me to see, to really see what is going on around me. Otherwise, all is well. Status quo. Don’t mind me, I’m fine, thank you, fine.

I don’t know if this is a product of my people-pleasing instincts or if it’s something deeper, something uglier, something like shame. Both, I’d say. Because I don’t want you to know that I’m hurting, that I’m failing, that I’m falling. And so I spackle on the smiles and set about convincing myself, believing my lies. I call it self-delusion. I call it self-defense.

But my eyes are opening now, and I see the truth I’ve been hiding from. That he saw it first, again, humbles me. That he handled it so poorly infuriates me.

The truth is we love each other so very, very much. The truth is we enable each other. The truth is we allow ourselves to hide. The truth is together we burrow into our bad habits. The truth is we’re not moving forward. The truth is we’re not living up to our potential. The truth is I’m hiding and draining myself into him. The truth is he’s depressed and broken and confused and lost. The truth is he’s my best friend. The truth is we have so much passion. The truth is holding his hand is my home. The truth is he breaks my heart then heals it. The truth is I sacrifice everything for him.

Last time he was right — we needed time apart. As much as it hurt, he was right. I don’t know if he’s right again. I don’t know where we stand. I don’t know how this will work. I don’t know if he’ll do the things he says he will — I don’t know if I will, either. I don’t know.

All I know is I love him. I want him. I need time. I need to be me for me again, instead of everything for him. I need him to heal himself; I need to realize I can’t do it for him. I need to let him succeed or fail. I need to let myself grow.

I’m trying to convince myself that I can do this, that I can be alone again, that I can be me again, that I can hold on loosely. Because neither one of us wants this to be the end. Just another beginning.

At home my mother waits with a freshly decorated house, things to do, attention to keep. But when she goes, what then? On Tuesday my isolation begins. Part of me wants it — to be left alone, to wallow, to sulk and scream on my own. But there’s another part that just wants someone to keep my mind off it, off him. Someone to take care of me, take care of things so I don’t have to.

He’s supposed to come on Saturday to pick up the rest of his things and I can’t decide if I want to see him, if I want to be there. We need to talk. We haven’t really talked. But I don’t know that I’m ready. I don’t know anything except that I want to go to sleep until September because that’s six months from now, and surely six months from now this will be easier, I’ll be better or on my way to better or at least not trying to shove my heart back into my chest with trembling fingers.

My head hurts.
It’s raining.
I can’t stop crying.
I don’t want to write here because the pity scratches at every nerve.
I have to write here because if I don’t I’ll stay wrapped up in my head and drown in misery, salted wounds.

Almost two weeks ago Lancelot had enough. I assumed it was general work frustration, knowing that he’s been struggling with career choices and money and self-worth wrapped up with all of that. He took off to go see his family three hours away. I didn’t worry much about it; sometimes we all need to get away. And, anyway, we were fine. We would be fine. Surely we would.

And then the days dragged and he didn’t call. I thought, well, he’s licking his wounds, he’ll come back refreshed and with a plan of attack and raring to go. This is how it is. But he didn’t call. And we always call.

When he did call, when he finally called a week ago, it was to say he needed to leave, wanted to leave. That’s he’s unhappy with everything, that he’s depressed, that he needs to be away, that he’s been horrible to everyone, including me, that he needs to deal with his shit, that he doesn’t want to be with me “right now,” that he loves me, that he always loves me, but that he can’t be part of us “right now,” that he doesn’t know what he wants.

I took off my ring. And I’ve been crying for a week.

I don’t know how this happened. I thought we were Teflon, bullet-proof. We’ve been through much harder times than this. Our love was strong enough. We said it often, “We can get through anything.” Hell, we said it a month ago. And now he’s moved out and three hours away.

This has happened before, in a way. But it’s different now. Somehow it’s different.

I don’t know how he can do this, after all we are and were and have been and were supposed to be to each other. I’m angry and hurt and broken and so very, very sad. I want my Lancelot back and it’s embarrassing and infuriating and heartbreaking.

My mother is here. She came into town last Friday and has been a whirlwind of activity, organizing and clearing out and decorating and helping me make “our” home just mine. As I type there are workmen at my house repairing and painting and Mom and Dad are moving in a new mattress, a fresh mattress, just for me.

And my friends are amazing — that includes you guys — for thinking of me and calling me and emailing me and loving me. I am overwhelmed.

I want to hate him for doing this, for leaving me this way, but I don’t. Mostly I’m worried about him, mostly I miss him. Mostly I want to pretend this never happened, that we’re still sitting on the couch holding hands and laughing at Doctor Who. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen to us. We were supposed to be immune.

I’m not ok. But I will be.