This morning it happened.
I haven’t been sleeping in my bed since the kids moved out.
I’ve been using the couch unless I have company.
I thought maybe I should start using my bed again a couple of days ago.
So, this morning, at 4:30ish, I woke from a sort of bad dream.
I reached over to the side of the bed formally known as Bob’s. . .
And nothing.
Nothing except the cold, harsh, stinging truth. . .
The reality hit me and I felt empty and hollow and lost.

Most weekends, Bob would sleep until noon or even 1 or 2 in the afternoon. He started trying to get up earlier, with my urging and finally the direction from his doctor.
Sometimes I would try to wake him 4 or 5 times.
“Wake me when the coffee’s done” he’d mumble.
I would wait about 3 or 4 hours then start it, otherwise it would be stone cold by the time he got up. (It was pretty amazing how much shit I managed to get done before he ever even fully opened his eyes…)
Oh this bed . . .our bed. . .”I love our bed!”
It’s practically impossible to not see him in it still.

I fucking hate him for what he did to me.
I am so fucked up because of him.
How can someone play such a vicious and cruel game with someone else’s life?
It’s evil.
He robbed me of my dreams, my hopes, my future.
He made me trust him and believe in him.
He made me feel like a bad person because I had my doubts.
He would whimper and pout if I showed any hesitation.
He got angry and annoyed if I felt uncertain.
“I am never going to hurt you baby! I could never hurt you! Β  I am so lucky to have found you! You are never going to get rid of me!”
Over and over he would reiterate those promises for the first few months of our relationship.
Looking back, he was kind of like those Tweets that always end with “!”.
Except he wasn’t a Tweet.
We were so much more than 140 characters.
Or so I thought. (!) πŸ˜‰

So, back to the couch I go.
For a while anyway.
This morning was too hard.
“Hey Ri? You’re having a nitemare baby.”

You got that fucking right. (!)
For. Sure. (!)


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