I had a panic attack today. I am terrified of being a single mother. I have lain awake at night, next to my husband, shaking, because I knew the relationship was shit, but I was more scared of being a single mom than I was of eternally enduring disconnection.
And here I am, forced to face my greatest fear.
I inhaled deeply and held my head in my hands between my legs. The attacks eventually passed, like storm clouds moving briskly through me.
I am so sad. My husband is so empty. There is nobody home. You are my only source, God, the only thing that is real.
Is this true?
I say these words, but I have no proof.
I don’t know what is real anymore.
The pain feels the realest of all.
Tonight, in yoga class, I realized that I was practicing alongside Highland Park’s wife. I knew she and I took yoga at the same studio; I knew what she looked like off of Facebook, and I knew her name. It wasn’t that hard to put it all together when the teacher called out Good Job Highland Park’s Wife!
She is beautiful. She is tall and thin. She is pretty great at yoga.
She has no idea who I am. As far as I can tell, anyhow.
What a trip that is. I could not have written a more twisted plot for myself.
It is slowly and reluctantly dawning on me that engaging with Highland Park may not be one of my better ideas. My rationalizations and compartmentalization fantasy could potentially backfire.
I can’t fuck the pain away.
No matter what Peaches says.
But you bet your sweet ass I am going to try.