"Been trying hard not to get into trouble but I got a war on my mind"-Lana Del Rey

There have been two days of silence.  Dull, listless, emptiness.  I am nothing if not efficient apparently.
It has been only five days since he last touched my arm and told me to drive carefully as I left his house.  It was dark so I couldn't even see him.

Part of me actually thought that I would still hear from him.  Part of his charm was his ability to never cease to amaze me so I shouldn't be surprised.

It has been about 20 hours since the last time I cried. It was the crumpled angry-at-myself kind that carried me off into my brief troubled dreams.

Two hours of sleep was followed by three hours of tossing, turning, and aches before I gave up on the whole idea. Four in the  morning is such a bleak time of day.

It has been twelve hours since my doctor told me she could help me.  I cried when she told me there were several things we can try and that everything that I explained was typical for someone with this disorder.  I'm crazy.  But it isn't all my fault.  Fucking serotonin or some shit.

It has been ten hours since the first little pill started to burn in my gut and it took another two hours after that to decide that I wouldn't actually be throwing it back up.

Two hours ago I ran for just three miles, so nothing monumental there, but the thought of not being so helpless is giving me hope.  I still feel like shit.  But I like the idea of not just self destructing. That is so not my style.

An hour ago I obsessively cleaned my house from top to bottom. -This apparently is no longer just a funny little quirk in me, my obsessive compulsive tendencies are actually a side effect.  Go figure.  I actually laughed when she told me this, knowing that this would amuse my husband to no end since he has been saying that since he met me five years ago and he first saw me flipping the labels in my pantry to all face out ....largest to smallest.

Sitting in my pristine house, music blaring to break the silence, still rocking my stretchy gym pants and tank, I still want nothing more to impulsively fill the void I feel needs occupied.

I have been aware of every passing moment.  Every. Single. One. My heart sinks when I realize that another chunk of time has passed and that I am either quickly being forgotten, or as he claimed, I am on his mind 24/7, and he is just respecting my wishes.  I am waiting for the time when my phone goes off and I am not disappointed by his ability to follow my explicit instructions.  Another ten minutes have passed since writing this.  How many more to go?