*Wallowing Alert*

I’ve never claimed this to be anything other than a place for me to purge personal thoughts, to sift through them, slow them down, hoping I might find a nugget of sense amongst the slops… when really all there is, is dirty muddy water.

I had a strange weekend, one where I spent the most part of 60 hours straight asleep in an attempt to escape the migraine that overtook me on Thursday night. It wasn’t the worst, or anywhere near it. I didn’t wish to die. But it was exhausting.

Sunday afternoon saw me finally creep out of my bed feeling shaky and foggy and dizzy, but the pain had retreated, as had the nausea. It was about this time I got a phone call from Malcolm, the ex. He wanted to know what to do with some very old tax papers of mine he had found amongst his things while he was packing. Not long after that, I heard someone at my gate, and there he was, an unannounced visitor, with the papers under his arm (even though we’d agreed on him mailing them). It was so strange, and there was no time to talk, so we said a quick, awkward goodbye, and then he shook my hand. It was rather comical.

And then he was off, climbing into the cab that was taking him and his girlfriend off to the airport, to their new life in Melbourne, and I sat there, feeling sad. Even the friendship we’d managed to salvage has now come to an end.

It is all well timed. Our divorce was finalised today.

Last night I lay in bed, unable to sleep (not surprising, considering) as the time flicked over in its red squared numbers. 1.00 2.00 2.30 3.30 4.30

I lay there and the betraying tears squeezed out of my eyes, even though I tried to deny to even myself that they were there.

There’s noone left. Noone who knew me when I was married. Noone who knew me before then. Noone who knows any of my history. Noone who knew me as an angry and shy teenager, as a flirtatious twenty-something, as a person who was literally bowled over by a love she didn't know she was capable of. A person with a strength to walk away from a life that was damaging her. Noone who lived these things with me. Noone who might be able to look at me today and maybe still see a little of the potential that was there with youth.

The last friend from that time moved to Melbourne, herself, two months ago, with a promise to phone and email once she had settled in. I’ve not heard a word from her since. Which makes me ponder that friendship, too, really.

I lay there alone and thought "I am alone." With my cats for company, tolerated (just) by my immediate family.

How can someone end up 38 years old without a single friend?