2 weeks

It started with a sty.

I think my body eventually gave up and last Monday I went to bed with a slightly sore eye and woke up on Tuesday with a swollen eye, looking like I'd been punched in the face.

The sty had spoken. It was time to take a break.

I think I have a great work ethic, I'm happy to keep working and keep going through anything. I may have a little cry along the way, but I don't give up. I worked all the way through my sciatica and all the way through the break up and I didn't stop. 

The sty was a sign to stop. 

So I stopped. I called in sick. Real sick. As in, please don't contact me, I'm sick. (Although I did actually end up having to dash into work to get my laptop to do some work. It's just...what it is!) 

Although I had the sty I was actually starting to feel better than I had in what felt like forever. Maybe it was the result of finally writing down and publishing what had happened to me and getting confirmation from other people that I wasn't mad, that it was an awful thing. You are all responsible for that, and making me feel like I'm not a complete nitwit for not realising that my boyfriend wanted to leave me. 

Not just feel better, but starting to feel. That was a big step forward because I was really not feeling anything for quite a long time there.

But the sty was forcing me to take some time off and I decided I was going to use that time productively. That meant sitting down and finishing my book first (priorities people) and then Getting Sorted.

Getting Sorted came in the guise of cleaning, rearranging, sorting, and throwing away.

I cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards. Threw out everything that was past its sell by date. Moved things around. Started putting stuff in a bag to give to charity. That bag swelled to two bags. I hoovered. I started to fill the drawers that he left empty. I started to fill the wardrobe space that he left empty. I carved out niches for myself in the places that were once his. I sat down and looked at my finances. I gathered up all the rest of this stuff that he didn't take when he moved out, ready to be put in a box to be sent to him.

I started to get clear. Mentally and physically. Excising a beast. 

By the end of the day I was starting to feel much better and was gladdened when I realised that I was hungry. A small thing, but from the day he left my appetite has been MIA and that is not something that ever happens to me. No matter what the drama, I can keep putting food in my body. Turns out that heartbreak is the only thing that stops me. Since he left I have singlehandedly kept the grain industry afloat as any meal that I have eaten has consisted of toast. I had cheese on toast a couple of times until the cheese ran out and I couldn't be bothered to go out and get more. I went for two days without drinking tea because I couldn't be bothered to go out and get milk. I'd tell you how much weight I've lost but hilariously the scales were his so I don't have those now.

Feeling hungry felt good. It was an excellent sign and although I wasn't up to cooking I was up for more than toast. I was reaching for the culinary heights of a jacket potato with tuna mayo and salad. As I chopped my salad I felt pleased with myself, things were good, things were moving along.

And then I noticed the time. 

6.30pm on Tuesday.

This time 2 weeks ago he was walking out of the door.

I stopped and I sat on the kitchen floor. 

I replayed it over and over in my head and I realised that I still can't think about it properly. When I imagine it, it feels like it is happening to someone else. I feel as if I'm watching a play where the lead actress happens to look a lot like me. I still don't have any feelings when I think about him leaving. I don't know if I ever will. I think it is my brain's protectionism kicking in. I don't think it wants me to remember it. When it happened I was beyond calm. I didn't rant and rave and I didn't really cry until well after he left. Maybe my brain decided at that point to switch off - that the resultant flood of emotions would be too much to deal with so it was best to not deal with them at all.

It's incredibly difficult to describe - it's not that I can't remember it happening. I remember it all in great detail. I just don't feel like it happened to me.

Maybe it will always be like that.

Eventually I picked myself up off the floor and went back to chopping my salad. I didn't want to eat again but I was going to make myself get on with it because I had to. Because the world keeps revolving, even if you don't want it to. Because I had had a good day and had made strides to move forward with my life.

Because soon a Tuesday at 6.30pm will just be a Tuesday at 6.30pm.