An Unreal Life

In 2017, I knew my marriage was over.

(I knew it was over in 2015 but I closed my eyes and held on.) .

And I hadn’t done the things you’d expect someone in my place to do. There was no extramarital affair. No disappearing from normal life. There was just the disconnect that happened, stepping out of sync but in an unfixable way, and I knew it was time to end it. .

But I was afraid. .

I’d gone from parents house to future in-laws house to my own first house, always living with someone in charge. I’d never had to step up so completely. .

I don’t know how to fix a dishwasher. I am less interested in house maintenance than you’d think. There are 6 light bulbs now burned out. I don’t plan on replacing them. .

And I always imagined another person beside me, also earning money, so the pressure would be off. .

Of course, that was laughable since I provided the income for the old household. .

2018 brought indecisiveness and waffling until the decision was taken out of my hands in an act of violence. And in that moment, I went from standing still to movement so fast it was mind blowing. .

End marriage. List house. Close business. Sell house. Find new place to live. Move. Start up new business. .

And every moment had to happen in a short period of time. Every objective run towards, picked up and carried in an ever heavier sack. .

It is April of 2019 and I am living in a box I do not own with high end finishes to be jealous of, no backyard to speak of, shiny appliances wrapped in an uncertain future here. .

My old life feels like a dream I once had. My new life feels false. Fake. A story I am telling because if I pause and tell the real one, I won’t ever stop screaming. .

All the same players but we’re not playing the same game, chess pieces moving around in the game of Trouble while randomly someone calls out Uno and resets everything. .

This is an Unreal Life. .

Unsettled into this house. .

Untethered to the past. .

The colours around me are sharp and false. The angles are wrong. The light is hard. Softly, outside the windows, reality calls but I can never quite touch it. .

I don’t know who I am any more. .

(Inside I am screaming.) .

I am well-adjusted.