A Little Wallowing

He's not home, and I suspect it's going to be twelve hours before I see him again. I only saw him a minute this morning when he kissed me to say goodbye. It wasn't even a minute, maybe a few seconds. I miss him so terribly all the time. I feel like I'm always missing him, like he's never really with me, like I never really have him. I feel like he would always rather be doing something else, for that's what he always chooses to do when he has a choice. All the other things in his life "have to be done" whereas I can always wait. I'll always be here. All the other things "are just for now" whereas I'm for all time. If I just make it through this day, this week, this month� if I just make it through this life, I'll be fine.

I tell him I don't have the endurance. I tell him I'm weak. I tell him I can't last. I tell him everything, but he always tells me I don't share with him. I allow him to read my journal, and he says he doesn't get anything from it, that it isn't me. Is that just an excuse not to deal with me? It's very much me, and it hurts terribly when he says those things. I share myself without acknowledgement. He doesn't even know I'm here.

So I feel lonely and unnoticed, and I must project that into the world, for it always feels like no one else notices me either. I hate to feel sorry for myself, and it just makes me feel even worse for it, because I do feel sorry for myself. I tell myself I'm the only one who will. But what will pity do for me? I know it does nothing, but it's really the only comfort I have sometimes. A sad comfort it is, but comfort nonetheless.