Sundays.

Sundays are always hard for me.

The weekend is over. The new week and all of its tasks are looming.

But loneliness is the real killer.

I do fairly well during the week. Except for the hour between my child’s bedtime and my own, I manage to stay busy enough, most of the time, not to think and think and think.

On the weekends? It is much harder.

I still do things. I still try to stay busy.

But there are more moments of quiet. More down time.

This weekend has been exceptionally strange and difficult. My husband, after hearing me ask for a divorce and discovering I was ready to move out of the house, decided that he really wants to fight for me.

I am confused. I do not know how I feel.

On the one hand, I so badly want to believe that he can change and that he can love me the way I want. He does love me. He is unwavering in his loyalty.

…But, so often, it is with him, in our own home, that I feel the loneliest. Will that change?

I struggle to reach out to him. To share myself with him.

I stopped doing that a long time ago. Stopped explaining how I was feeling. Stopped reaching to him for a hug.

I stopped because the connection…the response…so often, it was disappointing. I would leave feeling even lonelier, more empty than I began.

A part of me dreams of finding someone I can share with. Someone who appreciates me as I am–my mind, my body, my quirks. Someone who naturally knows how to comfort me–hold me, hug me.

Another part questions…can that person still be my husband?

Do I want it to be?

This weekend, my husband really has been trying. He kissed me. Like…a real kiss. Not a peck that has been pretty standard for the last ten years. I let him hold me.

But I still don’t know what I am supposed to do.

Can I learn to let go of the years of resentment…of loneliness…of feeling like I was never enough?

Do I want to?

All weekend, even in my own home, I found myself feeling that familiar ache of loneliness. That ache that drives me towards connection with other people. Where I call…text…escape to someone else’s presence, hoping it will be enough to fill me up. My husband was here. I even hugged him and asked him to hold me in bed.

But the ache was still there. It did not go away.

What does that mean?

Tomorrow is Monday. Another Monday.

As hard as the morning might feel, I welcome another busy work week. I look forward to losing myself in my classroom, surrounded by little people who unquestioningly love me just because I am their teacher. I look forward to challenging myself with new lessons and teaching strategies.

I don’t look forward to the weekend. Except for the sleep…and the extra hours with my own children.

Sundays…Sundays, especially.

They are hard. Quiet moments, filled with a loud, ticking brain.

Quiet moments, filled with an aching, yearning heart.

Quiet moments.

Sundays.

 

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