Wake Up

Wake Up

I was having one of those days where everything was good, and then everything goes to shit and the day turns into a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I ate breakfast, made a full pot of coffee, and only left the creamer out of the fridge for two hours instead of the entire day.  There was a long workout, which I cut short because the anxiety was a bit more “buzzy” than usual yesterday, and I just wasn’t feeling good about finishing the last 30 minutes right then.  There was actual clothing to be worn, and makeup applied, and maybe I could pretend everything was good for a few hours.   Fake it ’til you make it.

It was good, until I went upstairs and started packing his things. I was folding everything and putting it in boxes, and all I could think of was “I wouldn’t have to do this if I’d bailed him out.” We had the money, and if I didn’t make it on Wednesday, payday is Thursday and I could have done it then. Never mind the fact that if I’d bailed him out, I’d have to actually be with him, and share a living space. He could still be working, still bringing in money, and I wouldn’t be completely freaking out about everything. Because I am absolutely, pants-shittingly terrified.

We had a decent division of the money coming in each month, with enough to pay the utilities, the mortgage, car payment, and food. Now, it’s just my paycheck, and it’s not enough to pay for ALL THE THINGS. I opened a small credit card to handle the lawyery things. My mother has said she’s going to send me a bit every month, but I really don’t know how long things will keep afloat.

All because I was too proud and too angry to drop the 10% of the bond to get him out.

Then I realized that the cats’ water dish was bone dry. I filled it and carried Chaucer to it. I swear he drank half the bowl, and I feel really fucking awful about it. I don’t deserve these boys. Every time one of our neighbors pulls into their drive, Chaucer perks up, and I swear he’s thinking he’s coming home. He knows the sound of our car, but I feel like he’s hoping his human will come back home to give him snuggles with the fleecey blanket.

Through all of that, I was mostly ok, and handling my shit as well as you could expect someone whose house was raided by the police and whose husband was brought out in handcuffs. But then I opened up Google Keep a little while ago. I needed to find a family recipe that he had copied in there a year ago, so I can bake a fucking cake for Thanksgiving and play happy family.  Unfortunately, I discovered that in addition to the recipe, he copied and pasted part of a line or two of a conversation he was having with someone else, saying things he should only have been saying to me.

That’s it. I’m done. I want to wake up.