As I write this, I'm sitting on my porch. I say my porch because it's the house I'm renting, the one I've lived in since the end of January. It's so quiet out here. Away from the noise of sirens and people walking by the house on Sexton, singing to their iPods like they don't give a fuck. It's quiet here, too, on days when I don't have Cyrus. And my cat is still living with Mindy and the other cats. So she won't be lonely.
In March, my levee broke. I'd lost my wife and family. My grandma died. The stress of the past three years came rushing at me. There came a night I knew I couldn't be a good mom to Cyrus, so I called my own mom. She stayed with me that night. And I cried all the next day. Until 1:00 when we finally had to get something to eat. I drove us to Flatbranch, pulled right into a spot. Then stopped.
It's hard to explain how I felt then. I knew I couldn't go into the restaurant. I knew I couldn't go back to my house. It seemed like there was no where in the world to go where I would ever feel better. I cried. Mom cried. And the strangest thought crossed my mind, something I'd never thought before, in all the trials of my life. I need to go to a hospital. I called Mindy and told her that I needed help, needed to be checked in. Mom stepped out of the car to call Dad. I had no idea what was happening in my brain, but I knew this was something I couldn't come back from, not alone. I wept. I stared at all the normal people walking to and from the building, hungry or full. And I felt nothing.
Going to the ER for sadness felt ridiculous and the staff seemed to think so, too. They kept asking if I was suicidal. I wasn't. I was just really, really sad. They twisted their mouths and raised their eyebrows. Mindy came to help me.
Five hours later, they sent me away with a prescription and an appointment with a therapist in 5 weeks. They told me the pills wouldn't kick in for 2-3 weeks. I stayed with Mindy, in our house, for at least a week. I felt like I couldn't take care of myself. I cooked some meals and watched Netflix. I sat in Mindy's lap and let her hold me like a baby. I cried so much. So, so much.
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You want to know why we aren't together. These things are always too complicated to explain. I'll try: because my love changed. And maybe hers did, too. We both agreed that something needed to happen, something. Anything. So I moved out, and we took off our rings. And I saw someone secretly. And she is still dating someone.
Now she is my baby mama, but not "just." She is my best friend. The person who has made me my best and seen me at my worst. She is still who I turn to, though I'm not sure that's what we're "supposed" to do.
I'm officiating a wedding in October. I was asked to do this before Mindy and I split, so there was a time when I was afraid I'd be unasked. I think, because you've known my blog; and therefore, my thoughts, you probably saw us as some power couple. Some beautiful example of what love is. We were. And, to some extent, we still are. How can two people endure what we have and still find love to give the other? She is always happy when I'm sad, and the opposite is true, too. That's how we've always worked.
I'm still not sure what I'm going to say about love and marriage at the wedding. I've felt the deepest and hardest kind as well as the light and fluffy. I have loved and lost. I still love. I want to love again.
My friend told me that maybe marriage is like a pitcher of water. For some, the pour is smooth and steady, a trickle, drop by drop. For others, maybe, it's bottoms up.