World's full of beautiful women and rope tricks

Dateline: 18 May (London)

The artist formerly known as my husband is getting remarried.  I've known this was on the cards for a long while, probably a year.  I can honestly say it fills me with a deep sense of joy and rightness that Mr Biffington-Smythe has found a lid for his pot, icing for his cake and vice versa.  And it makes me a bit melancholy. I loved the idea of being married. I loved the idea of being safe, secure, loved.  There were times I even felt all three of those things in my marriage, but in the end, not enough to stay in it, to make the compromises necessary for the magic to survive.  I suppose part of what I am sad for is for the marriage I didn't have, which is a weird kind of grief. 

Last night a man kissed me. And I kissed him back but I went to bit sad that I didn't feel more...I don't know. I just didn't really feel anything.  I've only kissed a handful of people the last two years - a lovely woman, and 4 men. And OF COURSE the only one I wanted to keep kissing is essentially a toxic addictive substance for me, a human variant of cocaine, my therapist says.  I can't comment, as I have never tried cocaine, but yeah...I can see it. 

Today, I woke up and couldn't stop crying. I cried on the way into my Archives (I know, I know, technically it isn't my collection but I love it) and when I got there, my old supervisor was already there and the first thing she did was just wrap her arms around me. I know how fortunate I am to have my children to hug me and to hug on, but I also crave human contact. 

Beyond this arrested development, this return to feeling like I've contracted some sort of spiritual malaise is well and truly imbedded.  I am exhausted and bewildered, barely making deadlines and barely able to make time for people.  I am consistently amazed that people want to take care of me, that people value me.  That people check in, value my time, value my input. Valuing me, reminding me that I am loved so much more than I love myself.  

Last week in therapy when I confessed that I felt like I had been hit by an emotional Mack truck, that I had given into the temptation and was messaging with someone who is not a safe person for me, makes me feel as though I'm an animal caught in a trap, desperately trying to free my leg, my arm, my heart. And then a window slammed on my hand and suddenly, I was free but lost and confused. Time not regained, Swan drowned in a pond one late afternoon.

And still the laundry gets done, soup gets made.