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There must be something about water streaming down my face that encourages tears, because once again like an idiot I cried as he washed my hair.
I feel beyond pathetic when I sob in the shower. I worry that he’ll get tired of me going all emo on him at the drop of a hat (or the drop of a washcloth?). I worry that he’ll break up with me and then I’ll really have something to cry about. That makes me cry all the more, and then I feel like even more of an idiot.
Crying in the shower—a vicious cycle, that.
It’s possible to hide a few tears (and the accessory snot), what with all the water, noise and soapsuds. But eventually the facial contortions give it away.
“What’s wrong?” the lover asked with concern as he finished rinsing my hair.
I could only shake my head, unable (for once) to find or speak any words. He didn’t buy it. He snapped off the water and stood there staring at me, now shivering from the cold as well as crying.
The best I could eventually come up with was that it was the comparison that got to me. There’s a huge gulf between what goes on with him and what went on for over a decade with the stb-ex. Sometimes the awareness of that difference knocks the stoppers out of my tear ducts and out the tears flow.
I don’t know what to do with the tears but to let them come. He’s been incredibly understanding about my little crying jags, for which I am thankful.
But I have to wonder what business I have in seeing anyone at this point. I’m a weak broken mess, I think, and I probably cause more problems than I solve for everyone involved. I’m not doing anybody any good as a partner right now. Why not just stay home? Why not focus only on work and getting through this miserable divorce?
“Because you need someone to talk to,” the lover said when I brought these thoughts up to him.
“That’s what my friends are for,” I pointed out.
“I’d like to think I’m your friend too.”
Of course he is, and he’s been a really good one throughout all this unpleasantness. My friends (as usual) have been great; my readers (thank you readers) have been great; even my parents have been great.
Perhaps there’s something extra special about the comfort the lover has been able to give, especially on days when the stb-ex knocks me down with his words and the lover helps me back to my feet. The stb-ex seems bent of late on pointing out what he sees as my multitudinous shortcomings as a human being, a parent and a woman.
I know it’s all crap. Really. But it helps to hear that it’s all crap from the lover, who out of everyone is in the position most similar to the one the stb-ex occupied.
So here we are back again right where we started. There’s a huge gulf between how things are with the lover and how things were (and still are) with the stb-ex, and sometimes that difference makes for tearful showers.
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Really? Who would have thought it???

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