The unfolding.

I wrote this days before I asked my husband to move out.  I never did send it to him.  I suppose that it serves now as a reminder as to what initiated this process of divorce.  It helps to mark my keen sense of loss as valid.

It was he who disappeared without notice.  His shift in mood did not seem outwardly to indicate his desire for flight. Although, in all the years that we were together, his leaving was frequent and his mania and depression were often unabated.  In the absence of his ability to attend to his illness, and the lack of medical intervention , it was often his bi polar disorder that dictated the course of our day-to-day lives.  It was when he returned a few days later that I asked him to leave.

My head could blow up off of my shoulders at any moment.  It pulses, it throbs, and somewhere under the layers of grey matter is a small voice , growing louder by the hour that screams, enough, enough, please make it stop.  I plead with this voice to stay positive, to stay patient through endless presses of the redial button on a phone which can no longer maintain a charge.  I beg of my mind to stay calm, move forward, accept it.  Accept this.  Accept what, exactly?

And I pray.  I say the Lord’s prayer, as it is the only one which I remember in its entirety.  I close my eyes and mutter the words, each commencement and completion closing in ever faster on itself.  I wish that I had a rosary, I would say it.  I would find comfort in the tactile nature of rounded beads pressed beneath my fingers.  I would appreciate their company, their silence and neutrality , their ability to remain unchanged beneath so may furtive fingers, so many hands laced with veins that pump adrenaline, farther and faster through the body but stopping to retain the blood only for its vital organs.  I read of this wisdom of human physiology once.  It impressed me so much.

If our family is a body, are you the limbs and your children and I the vital organs?  Am I, as the heart to stop sending blood to you?  Must I amputate you,  cut you off?  How can I do this?

Our youngest son used to say that when your voicemail went off, you were unavailable.  He transferred this statement over to other environments in which only your physical presence was apparent.  Oh mom, Dad is just not available right now.

Dial again, call up my email, check my text messages, pull up the local news app on the iPad looking for stories of dead John Doe’s, injured unknowns,needing to see signs of your life on Facebook- although you claim never to be on it, I check anyways, over and over and over again.

My throat is so dry now, and yet I have hardly spoken today.  I feel mute. I call your sister and mother so that someone else can share the burden.  So that someone else knows to be prepared, en guard, ready to answer the phone should it ring at 3 a.m, or answer the door if an uniformed man knocks enquiring if we know you. Knew you.

Whatever this is, I just need to know.  I deserve to have something to process and filter.

I need your story as my rosary.