Don’t worry if you can’t see anything much in the photo above; there’s nothing much to see.
It’s a photo of the chandelier in our living room. Or should I say the chandelier in the living room of the flat that Mrs. M and I share, but only for a little while longer.
I am lying on the pullout couch where I now sleep, because Mrs. M has had enough of my relapses.
I am to move out. As soon as possible.
The chandelier and the shadows of the blinds from the faint glow of streetlights is likely to be burned into my memory: It’s the first thing I saw when I was finally able to open my eyes after the full pain of our separation has finally hit me.
It feels like someone is using a blowtorching my insides. Except – hello, stupid – it’s me who has turned the blowtorch on myself.
I hadn’t cried about it since coming out of rehab two days ago. I’ve now stopped crying and feel numb again, probably because I am now concentrating on this.
I shudder to think how it will feel when I have left the flat; when I am staring at a totally unfamiliar ceiling that doesn’t belong to us.
Mrs. M is not being cruel about our separation. She needs space and I understand that.
I need space as well. I don’t want it, but I do need it.
And I need to remember staring at this bloody chandelier and how shitty it feels to be alone and in the dark.
Such a perfect metaphor for addiction.