I hate talking about certain things. Ok, lots of things. Mainly personal things; things about myself and how I got to where I am today. Most of these things are just painful, or perhaps a little shameful, or both.
My former marriage falls squarely in the realm of personal-things-that-are-painful-and-more-than-a-little-shameful.
It's not even been a year since Rob and I seperated for the last time, and only six months since the divorce was finalized. There are still tender places where there was once an "us" and now there is only a "me". I still have moments of confusion about what the hell happened. I have many, many thoughts and memories that I can't even begin to describe, because, truthfully, a dissolved marriage is a little like a stolen Picasso: only you, the thief, can ever look at it and appreciate it, because it is an illicit thing that no one else can ever see. (Maybe that's a poorly executed metaphor, but it's the closest I can come to describing the intimate unspokenness of something that exists simply in the used-to-be.) I don't know what to say when people ask questions...like so many things, I often wish people just wouldn't ask.
Sometimes I hate the past.
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