What Loneliness Feels Like

Single Tree Hill

It’s past midnight, and I’m going to bed alone, again.

Loneliness feels like an empty bed on a Saturday night.

I just checked on both boys and they were asleep in unusual positions, matching: Little Dude, stretched out on his back, hands fisted behind his head. He’s normally on his belly. Big Brother, ditto. How cute is that? No one to tell.

My friends came over tonight. We laughed hard, and talked about everything and nothing. It was just what I needed. I am so blessed. Yet, as it often does, the conversation circled back to husbands, marital sex, and the like. I smiled, silent. No funny stories to share. Nothing funny about separating from my downward spiraling husband. Loneliness descends.

Husband has always put up and taken down our Christmas tree. Today, with the help of friends, I took it down myself. I’m capable of anything but loneliness is doing every task in the home, without company.

This morning Big Brother had a birthday party to go to. Last year, we would’ve tag-teamed. I’d take one, Husband would stay home with the other. Today, I was on my own, trying to keep track of two quickly moving boys in a crowded kid zone. Loneliness is realizing the responsibility of  your kids’ safety is all on you.

This evening my sons went for a (supervised) visit to dad’s. We got ready, packed a bag of toys, and went. I dropped them off, smiled and said hello, and left. Loneliness is finding yourself in a 7-seat minivan without your family, with nowhere to go and nothing appealing to do. Loneliness is leaving  your boys with your addict husband, hoping they will be ok. Loneliness is picking them up and Husband admitting that no, once again, he did not broach the subject of the separation with the children, even though I asked him to. Loneliness is having to explain, again and again, all by myself to my oldest son, why daddy cannot come  home with us anymore. Loneliness is knowing that not every parent reads Dinosaurs Divorce before bed.

Loneliness is feeling my body as I take off my clothes for bed, and then suddenly remembering that there is no one to share it with.

Loneliness is a queen bed on a cold night.

Loneliness is knowing that if anything were to happen to my children or I, I and I alone am responsible for taking care of us. Husband is still using, and has a nasty habit of not answering the phone.

Loneliness is blogging late at night in bed, with the lit screen bothering exactly no one.

Loneliness is knowing that when I wake up, nothing will have changed.

Loneliness is accepting that my marriage is dead, and that my Husband will perhaps not get better. Apparently losing us is not his rock bottom.