I’m pretty sure Damon moved out while I was out of town this weekend.  At least he moved enough stuff to live on.  And by that I mean his computer is no longer in the bedroom. That’s as good as moved out, in his book.

So yeah. This is hard. This is much harder than I anticipated, if you can anticipate anything from such things.  The sadness and the mourning? I expected that. However, I could NOT have predicted the way my body would react to the situation.  Weeks after the fact, I continued to be a hot mess of nausea and fatigue and eye-twitching. [I suppose this is what happens when you continue to attempt co-habitation with someone who, assumingly, LOATHES you.]  I continued to hope: Okay, today, this is the day we actually talk again. Maybe not jovially share popcorn and chuckles on the couch, but maybe not do this passive-aggressive song-and-dance that’s been going on for three weeks.  But that day never comes. And the sadness turns into anger and the anger into guilt and the guilt into an ULCER, so I got myself to the doctor.  Not the “open wide and say ahh” kind, but the “tell me about your mother” kind.

I’m not surprised, as every major transition in my life has brought about some sort of imbalance. Regardless of whether the change is unwelcome (like when my friend died) or welcome (like when I graduated college), there is just something in my brain that goes, yeeaaah, not so much and totally wrecks my ability to function. I need to be kick-started. Neurologically.

Yikes, Debbie Downer. If the great musical deconstructor, Seth Rudetsky, was here right now? He’d DEFINITELY say that this blog entry needs to modulate up a half step.  You know, that moment in music when things have become too morose, or the big finale needs to be turned up a notch, so the key changes from minor to major or whateve—you know what, I think I’ve shown my band-geek layer enough for today…

I will say this: There is still an abundance of  hope in the simplest of things.  A touch on the shoulder, a “how are you doing” email or text, an almost Pavlovian turning-up of the mouth when I hear the opening notes of “Thunder Road” — these things.  The things that seem to say, you’re gonna be alright, kid.