DISCLAIMER: I’ve been debating for a few weeks now if I was going to repost these “Mitch Classic” blogisodes from when my marriage ended. I went back and forth between “I don’t want to repost them and relive that experience” to “I should post them to show how far I’ve come since then.” I concluded that Mitch Being Honest is about being honest, and being true to myself and to not post them would be contradictory to my blog premise.
The last couple hours of the day before sleep are the worst. That time between putting Little Mitch down for the night and my own bedtime. The only time of the day when I am truly alone. I distract myself. I fold laundry, I love to smell the scent of my son on his clean T-shirts. I watch DVD’s of movies I’ve seen too many times. I read magazines about sports I don’t care about. I listen to Springsteen, no sad songs don’t need that association. I watch music videos on youtube, always the same songs never new ones. I text with friends, keeps my focus busy. I load the dishwasher, when it doesn’t really need to be loaded. I go over my budget, even though I already know its balanced. Anything to keep busy and keep that admission I don’t want to acknowledge at bay.
It’s been four weeks since the split. I don’t want to admit it to myself but I know it’s there. I miss intimacy.
I don’t mean sex. I mean intimacy. I miss being touched by a woman. Just to hug, to hold hands, someone to lean into me sitting on the couch, to have someone to hold onto in bed on Sunday morning.
You know what part I miss the most? Now that it’s just me and Little Mitch at our place it smells like a man house. I’ve always loved the fragrance of a woman and now it’s not there. The scent of a woman can literally make my skin tingle, now I don’t know if and when I will ever get that feeling again. The perfumed floral fragrance of femininity.
Right now, if someone offered me a choice between a physically satisfying purely sexual one night stand or an emotionally fulfilling intimate cuddle in bed, I have to be honest, I may choose the latter.
I read a book that says the first 100 days since the split are the worst. I sure hope so because I am ticking off the days to get to that number. Not that I expect to get to day 100 and some magical switch will click and everything will be okay. I’m not delusional, I know this stage of my life. learning to be single, is a journey. But I keep telling myself if I can get to 100 days… I don’t know what will happen at day 100 I think Im just using that arbitrary number as a goal to keep my mind focused on the things I don’t want to focus on. It’s always easier to focus on external things than the internal hurting angry bitter sad things. I know it in my head and I know it in my heart but on a certain level I don’t want to acknowledge it; I will be divorced. Just the thought of the word makes my chest sink.
At this point, you’re probably thinking that I’m depressed. Actually that couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, I’m actually, in general happy about the state of things. I just feel desensitized. A venti suck latte with a crap biscotti and flavour shot of mildly angry about the situation.
Little Mitch is doing okay. His grandpa is looking after him for the summer when I am at work. He is happy but there are signs now that the life changes are affecting him too. He’s hitting a lot. Not hard, but hitting nonetheless, I think he’s mad about the life changes too, I don’t blame him, somedays I want to hit things too.
He’s back in my bed indefinitely. The five year old kid who doesn’t really like to cuddle in bed needs to fall asleep on my chest. He’s very concerned about when I am going to bed, he doesn’t want to be in bed alone, he asks me every night to go to bed with him. I wake up some mornings to go to work and he cries he wants me to stay in bed, and then I have to hand him off to his grandpa. Every day hes asks me if I’m going to work tomorrow, I say yes, and he asks me to take the day off.
Tonight, as we lay in bed, after his bedtime stories, Little Mitch asked me again to tell him a story about when I was a kid. I told him the story of the first girl I ever asked out when I was in Grade 9. He listened intently as he often does to stories about my childhood. “Daddy, did you ask mommy out?” a few years later I did, I replied. “Daddy? Why don’t you ask her out again?” Sorry bud, that’s not going to happen, mommy and daddy were fighting too much. “Oh yeah daddy, we’re still a family though right?” That’s right I said we’re still a family. “Daddy? Are you going to ask any girls out soon?” I told him a version of the truth he could understand, “Not right now bud, maybe someday who knows? But right now, no.”
The sad reality of my days is that the most authentic adult conversations I have are with my five year old son at bedtime. I think I need to start letting other people in.