Feeling Lonely

The past two months have been extremely stressful. In the stress I didn't realize how lonely I feel. The past two weeks, since most of my daughter's ex problems have dissipated, I have been feeling the nagging want for a serious conversation and companionship. By writing this I am completely exposing myself. Garry and I have been drifting apart. Most of it is due to his disability. Physically he cannot stand to be touched because of the pain, even while on medication. This does take a toll on a relationship. I am a very physical person, putting it politely. Then, to make the situation worse, he doesn't want to talk. He spends his days watching movies and court shows. To explain the distance that is becoming between us, he found my daughter's condoms in my pantie drawer. I honestly can't remember why they were there. There are two reasons that I can think of: one, my daughter didn't want her brother to use them up; two, I found them thrown on the floor and hid them from her for being irresponsible. Either way, they were there. Now, imagine what Garry insinuated from finding the condoms. This was four days ago, and he is still mad at me. I guess it doesn't help that we can't sleep together because the way he has to lay to keep the pain at bay. Keeping myself busy is the only solution to not feeling the loneliness, but I get tired of "keeping busy."

I've been thinking of something else as well. He has already said in so many words that he wouldn't move "south." But the way he said he wouldn't move, said so much more: he wouldn't move at all. What if I don't have a choice? What if I have to find a job in another state? I know he doesn't want to be away from the grandkids, and neither do I, . . . but. . . . A good job, a good paying job will make me move. I'm tired of living on the edge, never knowing if we are going to make it to the next month. And I'm not going to kill myself by working many hours a week at low paying jobs, it isn't worth it--there is more to life than working. I want to live. I'm not saying that I'm not living, I'm saying I'm tired of just surviving. It gets old fast. I want to enjoy a little more of life. Damn, I'm nearly fifty and haven't accomplish the one dream I've had since I was in the first grade: publish a novel. Just surviving makes it hard to concentrate on a dream.

I have to stop writing before I start crying. If I start crying, and someone walks through, there'll be questions asked I don't want to answer. If only . . . . If only what? If only a heart break was all I had to worry about.