I'm distraught. I can't sleep and I don't want you to sleep either. I wanted to text Mr. Ex last night as I lay in bed with a stomach ache. I talked myself out of it just barely. I'm slipping backwards. Back down the slope. I'm thinking of my first December at my MFA residency, the first spring without him in NYC when I emailed him every couple of minutes for probably an hour. I am walking the edge of something slippery and there is a chasm waiting.
There's no end in sight. Dividing our community property means he writes me a check. He doesn't want to do that. Every month I pay my attorney. To go to trial now would cost more money than I would get from a division of our assets.
Add that to the fact that I was lied to, cheated on and ambushed on a July afternoon.
When do I just say, "You win, Mr. Ex."
Come back to me, Cymbalta. I need you.