Not a portion of my day goes by without my contemplating, nearly obsessing, about him. I wonder what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, if he’s thinking about me, if he’s eating properly, if he’s sleeping at night, if he misses me, if he’s thinking about our daughters and our unborn baby, if he’s sorry for what happened, if he’s trying to change.
A friend of mine tells me that my constant thinking of him is a way to keep him with me, to keep from being lonely. She tells me that I’ve kept him with me mentally as a way to keep from losing him completely. I think she’s on to something, because no matter how much I try to move past our relationship I find myself questioning: Does he still love me? Would he want me back?
I don’t maintain the fantasy of being a couple, but I still entertain the idea of being friends. I love him. I wonder if he hates me. I wonder what he is telling his family. I wonder if he is plotting to kill me. I miss the way he smells. Although everything I’ve learned from counseling tells me that I should have little hope for him
coming to terms with the facts of our relationship admitting to being a batterer, I patiently await the day when we’ll be able to have a conversation.
It’s strange. For eight years before The Big Incident I had heard his voice every day. I had seen his face. I had touched his skin and shared his space. I was being mistreated, but he was with me. I am alone now, though not entirely without him. He possesses me with every motion from our growing baby in my uterus, there is nostalgia in every album, every moment with our daughters is a reminder of what I’d hoped would be, and everything I do is partially influenced by his absence.
I wonder how I’ll carry on without him. I know I’ll never love again. I wonder if he is already looking for a new companion. I’m certain that I no longer want to be with him, still it’s nearly impossible to let him go.