I spend most evenings in my bedroom now. I put on Netflix and put away laundry or go through more of the unpacking/repacking that’s necessary when you’re separating a husband and wife’s things. Other times I sit and write. Sitting and writing is my preferred activity, for any time I’m not in full blown mummy mode really, but often has to take a back seat to more practical things.
Prior to this whole marital break down thing I spent my evenings downstairs. My husband was away from home, either working or just “out”, a lot so my own company is neither unusual nor a problem for me. I’m actually pretty happy just pottering around being me. But downstairs was fine. Now it feels lonely when it’s empty.
Miss Rose fills our home. She might be happily occupied in the utter destruction of her jigsaw box and therefore relatively quiet, but she fills it. When she’s quietly snoring her happy little snores on the sofa during nap time, she still fills our home. But when she’s asleep in her room she doesn’t seem to fill it, and downstairs feels echoey and dull.
So, I have relocated to my bedroom. My bed. I feel like a teenager again, only thank heavens I’m not I can’t imagine anything more ghastly.
My bed is a very lovely place. I know my husband used to take up half of it, though he would vigorously deny that due to my tendency to develop additional limbs during my slumber which all seem to stick out at strange angles… and move regularly. But despite the lack of him, my bed is still a lovely place. It’s where I have sleepy cuddles with my daughter. It’s where I cuddle up and feel warm and safe. And we all know about the duvet’s remarkable powers to protect against aliens, ghosts, Vikings and other such intruders.
I expect that in time downstairs will feel welcoming again. I did try for a long time to carry on the same and spend my evenings down stairs. But it’s not the same. It’s different and it’s okay to accept that. It’s okay to behave in a way that is “me” not “us”. “Me” likes to watch Netflix in bed whilst eating an egg sandwich and then swearing because she’s got crumbs on the sheets. “Me” likes to snuggle down in my pyjamas with a laptop on my knee and a small ginger dog on my ankles and write from the comfort of under the duvet. “Me” doesn’t have to worry about what anybody else thinks about what I do or where I do it. “Me” is doing what feels right just to “me”.
It’s peculiar. But I’m getting used to it. “Me” is a big fan of just being “me”.