Friday, May 7, 2010

The numbers of Sleeping Alone

May 7, 2010

It had been seven weeks since she had sex and nearly five weeks since she slept next to someone. Prior to that - it had been eight years since she'd been alone in bed, and truthfully it had been twelve because in college she was easily loved and easily in love. For the first time in her entire life, she felt the pain of a relationship that had to end - and she felt it long enough to actually hurt because she didn't swap out one with another. She tried, but she chose the wrong subject for transferred affection.

She'd read about depression and swore to that she'd never go down that road, but instead found herself pulling out her easel and guitar as the clock struck one. Insomnia and excessive productivity was her version of depression because sleeping alone was terrifying.

The problem was that they both didn't actually love her. Not the husband she'd had for almost a decade, nor the man she'd unintentionally replaced him with, and honestly how could they? Of one she'd required nothing, of the other she'd hoped for everything. She needed to start again, she needed a re-drafting, and she didn't have the tools to begin.

Not a bitter woman, instead a perpetually sensual one, she hoped this too would pass and she wouldn't end up like her friends who at later ages were single, lonely, and unsexed. But as she sat on her couch, alone that night - with a glass of wine, surrounded by acrylic paints and unfinished paintings, a guitar that was sorely out of tune, and the concepts of a hundred books she had not yet written, she wondered how she would begin again and wished quietly for the warmth of skin, the beat of a heart, and the rhythm of bodies entwined to comfort and quiet her mind.

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