While I have finally conquered my insomnia, I haven't conquered my dreams, which are variations of a similar theme--my former life. During the daylight, I can nimbly push thoughts of my former self away, particularly as I have so much to be thankful for and about in the present. But as soon as I drift to sleep, the dreams are anything but sweet. Bob, the house on Jefferson Avenue, my dogs and generally some random person narrating, telling me that I'm crazy for leaving it all behind, that I'm not strong enough to survive on my own, that I'm stupid for clinging to my dreams of a successful business, a writing career, a nourishing relationship and motherhood.
Last night, Bob was my friend. I was able to talk to him about the past, about what went wrong, about my new life, about the happiness I've found--and he was happy for me. And he had found happiness himself.
The most difficult thing about divorce is that all of a sudden, this person who was your best friend, your companion and support for years--however dysfunctionally--suddenly disappears. There is no "being friends." Which makes my heart ache. No matter how wrong he was for me, no matter how unsalvageable our relationship had become, I still love him and wish him nothing but happiness and success. But I can't even tell him that. I can't even see him. A big piece of my heart, of my life, has simply vanished, leaving nothing but emptiness, guilt and profound sadness in its wake. Juxtaposed with the extreme happiness and contentedness I feel with the rest of my life.
And so, I plod along, trying to forget, pretending to forget, until my subconsciousness reminds me that the past is very much present.
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