I don’t know if I can do this, if I can survive the sexting-emails, whatever you want to call them. I fucking miss you, and I’m so angry at you, and I can’t sleep at night and I can’t stop drinking and I fucking hate you as much as I fucking love you.

How did we get here?

I don’t know. I wish I knew. I have no answers.

If you were here, I’m not sure what I would do. Beat you senseless, or fuck you stupid, or both.

I’m just…

SO ANGRY.

Not just at you, though. At life. At God, or Fate, or Destiny, or who the fuck ever or what the fuck ever is in charge in this life, if anyone, if anything. I’m just angry and I don’t know how to cope. I miss you, and I don’t want to. I understand why you left, and I don’t want to understand. I want to wallow in my rage, but I get it.

I still wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes, and reach for you. Or listen for Henry. But then I remember that I’m utterly and completely alone.

Except for Darcy, of course, who now sleeps where you used to.

Everything is a mess.

Do you remember that time we both had too much to drink, and I couldn’t come because the alcohol had desensitized me, but you were hard and horny, so I told you I’d suck you off? I sucked you off like a damn champ that night, for real. It must have been a good ten minutes I spent going down on you, and then, on the spur of the moment, instead of swallowing, I took your load on my face and tits. You were so shocked, and you didn’t know whether to be turned on or disgusted, which was exactly how I felt. Equal parts of both, is what it was. God, what a mess.

I would do that again, right now. Take your cum all over my face. All over my tits. I would…god, Christian, I would do absolutely anything for another taste of you, for one moment with you.

But then all the other stuff comes back, and I feel this irrational hatred of you. I know it’s not your fault. It’s not, and I know that. I’m just as much to blame, and it’s also just one of those things that no one is at fault for, a horrible horrible awful tragedy no one could have prevented. But I still hate you for it, and I don’t know why, and I don’t know how to fix it.

I’m not blogging. I can’t. My readers expect humor, and I have none. None at all.

I think I’m going to need some time to figure things out, Christian. The tug of war between needing you, wanting you, loving you, and hating you, loathing you, reviling you…is just too strong and too painful. I need to figure it out. I need to decide what to do, how to get clean, how to live again, how to stop drinking, how to stop missing you. I want to beg you to come back, but I’m terrified of what I’d do if you did.

Nothing is okay, and I don’t know what to do, and emailing you, hearing your voice even through email is too painful, too difficult.

I’m not going to email you again. I don’t know for how long. I don’t know if I’ll ever get past all this.

I’m not saying goodbye, I’m just…I’m done for now. I don’t know what else to say. What else to do.

P.S.: that vacation to Iceland remains one of my top ten favorite memories of my entire life. Top five, and number two or three in that top five. Our wedding day is my number one favorite memory. We did it so cheap, a little arbor on the beach wreathed in white lace and white roses, you barefoot in your tux and me barefoot in that incredible Vera Wang I bought off the rack. I walked down the aisle to you to Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be” which was so great and ridiculous and just perfect. My parents were there, your mom, Delta, Lucy your agent, and that’s it. It was perfect. So romantic.

What’s number two? I’d really have to say the Iceland trip. We ate fish every meal, and I think I still have an entire storage crate full of wool sweaters. The locals thought we were so crazy for being so cold all the time, but sixty degrees is cold to us, whereas sixty to them is downright frickin’ balmy. I mean, I remember everything from that trip. Hiking for days, riding a motorcycle together around the coast, all the way around the whole island. Deep-sea fishing with Captain Didrik, but his name was actually spelled with that rune-letter-thing that looks like a “d” with a cross at the top of the upper part. Going out drinking, getting lost, and trying to find a cab to take us back to our B-and-B, but we couldn’t remember the name of it. Out of all that, though, yes, I remember the nights best. I was on my period for half the trip so we couldn’t have sex, but we had such an incredible, memorable time doing what we did, drinking and watching movies in that fucking frigid little room all night every night. It was amazing.

Number three is having Henry. Giving birth, I mean, they say you forget the pain, but I haven’t. It was so, so, so worth it to me, the moment I held that warm squalling, mewling, nuzzling little bundle of warmth in my arms. Fuck, now I’m crying because I miss him so damn bad. His little hands, his little feet. The way his chin would tremble when he cried, and his little fists would shake with outrage because he’d shit his pants for the twentieth time in 24 hours. I miss all of it.

For real. I’m done with these emails. I need time. I have all those fucking memories running through my head and I need you and I miss you and I love you, and then I remember that you FUCKING LEFT, and I’m just filled with rage all over again and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do, Chris.

So, until I figure that out…I just can’t do this anymore. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Don’t email back. Just…give me time and space. Please.

A.