I have had enough of the endless, pointless dialogue which I keep running over and over in my own head.  I always become angry or more and more hurt and it isn't even as if anyone else is even involved.  It's a form of psychological self mutilation I can well do without.

I have been staying at my father's for a few days, seeing family and old friends, and the train journey back today was interminable, delayed by engineering works.  I used the time to try and sort my thoughts and think of something positive I could do to take control of my life more positively.

It seemed (and seems) to me that by holding these long, painful conversations "with Lizzy" in my head I am internalising something which, truly, isn't mine.  I own my own sadness and my anger and shame, but at the root of it I am in fact coming back to the same questions over and over again.  Most of these questions start with "why."  But the commonality of them is, of course, that there is no way for me to answer them.  They are all questions I desperately need to ask her and have her answer for my own peace of mind, if not sanity.  So, of course, asking nobody but myself over and over again helps nobody and actively harms only me.

As Liz has cut off all communication with me the only thing I can do I have done, which is to send her an email asking, fairly bluntly but, I hope, without being cruel the questions I so much need answers to. I hope she reads it, I hope she gives them some thought, and I hope she answers me.  I hope more than anything that we can talk face to face, but a letter, phone call or email would do if that is all she can manage.

I don't know if it is the sending of the email or the time spent ordering my thoughts, but I have found a modicum of peace for the first time since my life fell apart one month and three days ago.

When I got home I found a hand written letter, undated or addressed, in which Liz has said she will not insist I sell our house unless "at some point in the future you have the money [to buy her out], you have a relationship with someone you care for and allow them to move in or you choose to sell the house."  Fat lot of chance I have of ever finding someone to move in with me.  As she pointed out, I am a washed out disabled middle aged man with nothing to offer a normal woman and with the prospect of further disability hanging over  my head.  In a  letter which is written in a stilted, unemotional voice and handwriting which is jerky and erratic she has effectively given away tens of thousands of pounds of equity.  Once again I am more concerned for my friend than for myself.  Mind you, Lizzy hasn't exactly been honest or consistent in any of her dealings with me for some months, so I don't know how much weight to put on this letter even now.

This evening, and it is always the night time which is the worst for me, I have found myself listing the things which we will not do together.  We won't be going to the cinema any more to see the Hobbit or Anonymous or the films we loved to share.  We won't talk about the books we have read, or the people we have met during the day.  We won't go to historic houses or castles together.  We won't ever look at the moon together and share the moment of pure joy at being alive and in each other's company.  We won't share the silent communion which only comes from spending decades together, knowing each other's thoughts without speaking or even exchanging a glance.  And personally speaking, I will never again know the pride and confidence of being beside someone in whom I have absolute, unquestioning trust and unconditional love.

Phill

PS.  Over the last month, several hundred people have been regularly reading this sad story.  I have no idea who you are as no one has left any comments despite my asking.  Why are you reading this?  Entertainment?  Does it help somehow?