Tomorrow, it'll be three weeks since my life blew up in my face.
I sleep between five and six hours each night. No trouble drifting off, but I wake up early and fully in the dark.
I'm eating, but nowhere near as much as I used to. (Not sure I'm eating too little at this point. I used to eat too much.)
Weighed myself at the gym a week ago: I've lost about fifteen pounds. To be clear, I'm by no means emaciated. I was edging into the overweight category at the beginning of all this, and I'm still on the high end of the Body-Mass Index "normal".
Nausea builds up periodically throughout the day. The only cure I've found is crying, but the tears don't come if I'm alone. When I find myself doubling over, beginning to tremble, I know I'm way overdue to reach out for support.
My phone is my lifeline. I looked at the accruing cell bill online yesterday: With six days left in the month, it was already 300 minutes (more than $100) over the basic plan.
I occupy my low-nausea spare time with divorce-recovery chores: Burning copies of his CDs. Long overdue shopping for clothing. Exercise. Writing lists of things to do next, people to call, questions to get answered, possible aspirations for the future.
A date is set for the sit-down with A~ and K~. It'll be Sunday, February 5th, not sure yet what time. Working on the location.
My husband left me for another woman. It's still sinking in.