Last night I couldn’t sleep. I’m so used to cuddling my daughter’s big warm body all night, cursing her for kicking me, for wriggling, that being alone in the bed feels strange.
I took myself downstairs for tea and toast, a ritual I followed often when I couldn’t sleep through anxiety before. The anxiety he wouldn’t come, then when he was actually with me, that he wouldn’t stay. It was always strangely comforting and in spite of my tears , hunkering under a blanket, watching something on the iPad, eating hot buttery toast at one o’clock in the morning had a cosy yet decadent feel to it.
Last night it was pure pleasure. I’m on my own, can do what I like without a small child asking “mummy where have you gone?”. I realised that whilst I still thought of him often – there are reminders everywhere – that I can watch those thoughts drift in and out like clouds without feeling upset at all. Something they tell you to do to manage your mind anyway “imagine those thoughts on a conveyor belt or floating past you on a stream…” I tried, believe me I tried.
I’ve been worried that he thinks badly of me. He had suggested that the comment on Facebook which caused her “what’s going on with my husband?” email, I did deliberately. I didn’t and everyone I’ve explained to about the fact that once you make something a profile pic all the comments are public has been surprised too . But I’ve been sure somehow, because he’s finally managed radio silence, that his love has turned to hate.
Yesterday I decided it was meaningless either way. That I know what I have and haven’t done, that in the end I wrote a note which must have given her a little peace of mind back. I know his and her recovery will not be as fast as mine has been, but I hoped he would be happy.