Melancholy misty morning. in The Big, Blue House, year one.

Every time he’s nice this long, I start to irrationally wonder if it’ll stay this way, but after two and a half decades, I know better, and it sucks. I could actually be “happy” if things were stable, but this was the best I could do for a relationship, and realistically, there’s no timeline in which I could survive without a partner.

I sat down here to write about how well everything is going, but typing it out makes it obvious that’s not the case, really.

The weather is nice. It was foggy when I woke up. Unlike Toledo, the fog here just smells like fog. I opened the back side second floor window and just watched it wafting across the roof, listening to the wet leaves fall, and the birds calling. I get blue jays and sparrows at my bird seed dish.

Picture from the third floor:

(I plan on getting on the garage roof sometime this week with a leaf blower. Cross your fingers that I don’t break any bones, since I’m clumsy by nature. A poor proprioceptive sense is the clinical term.)

I miss having people around. Just acquaintances, or odd family members. Just anyone to sit and have coffee with. I’ve got this big house, and I make coffee every morning, and drink it alone with the cats. And it’s depressing. I’ve finally accomplished what I wanted my parents to see me accomplish, and they’re long dead.

Of course my two remaining half siblings have seen pictures on Facebook, and my nieces. So that’s something.

But for all of my mother’s toxicity, I could always count on her for a few validating words, even when she was angry. Now I’m reduced to Don, and even when he’s actively trying to be nice, I think he’s neurologically incapable of actually uttering a validating or considerate sentence. And I hate it.

When I worked, my coworkers would often do that for me. Just recognition that I exist, “Hey, Cindy, how you doin’?” “How’s your week been?” “What’s for lunch?” etc. With Don I get “Hi”. “Wanna burrito?” And that’s honestly about the extent of his vocabulary unless he’s angry, in which case it’s conspicuously easy for him to insult me.

Sometimes I dread being alone should I outlive him. Other times I sort of hope that I do, and manage to convince the favorite niece to move in. Or some equally noise-averse autistic person to just be a human presence, and split the bills. I don’t even mind cleaning up after people. I’ve been cleaning up after Don for twenty six years. I enjoy doing dishes. It’s oddly comforting, after years of doing it as part of my job. I actually kind of dislike the dishwasher for that reason.

Oh well. Melancholy misty morning in eastern Ohio.