So it begins. Roi rushed around the house this morning, packing the car for his three weeks away. I tried to sleep through it, and then couldn't stand to feel his frantic energy which I could only interpret as, "can't wait to get out of here", so I got up, dressed, and planned to go for a walk. He was ready to leave before I was, hugging me good-bye and then quickly fleeing.
He came home last night, flowers in hand, "flowers for my sweet". He feels bad that I can't get away too. It would be easy for me to cycle into that loop of anger where I have been wronged, wronged, wronged. How his platitudinous sympathies are hollow considering how often he "gets away" with no sincere effort to ensure I can join him or find time or money to do it on my own. The earnestness of his words so rarely ever match sincerity of action. How easy it would be for me to stew in this for the next three weeks, how easy he makes it for me to be justified in it, how easy to feel the victim again.
But I won't because that cycle is worn out. The grooves in the record are so deep now they've run straight through to the other side. One step to the side and I'm out of it. Not out of the pain entirely, not out of the woods or even close to the edge, but stepping forward and forward on this different path even if it is dark, even if it is terrifying, even if I don't know where it ends up. I step and have faith the ground will rise up to meet me, every time.
In the past when Roi has fled home for one of his grand or small trips I have tried to overcompensate to cover up the pain of his continued abandonment. Thrown myself angrily and grandly into the world. Not this time. I have made no big plans by which I can vengefully cover the hurt. I will take this all one small moment at a time, gently. See my therapist, write when I need to, and let the rest happen as it happens.