I haven’t updated in awhile, because honestly, I’m having a hard time remembering what happened to me after my husband moved out and I came back home after Christmas.

It’s like I’ve blocked it out or something.

I don’t remember driving back to New York, but I know I did, because I was booked on a pretty hectic job that week.

I have no recollection of talking to my tenants, but I know I did, because they’d just moved in.

I seem to remember random mundane tasks:

Taking out the trash.

A warm, floppy hat he gave me last winter that I liked to wear.

My favorite pair of fingerless gloves.

The way my youngest cat had taken to finding the most expensive garment I own (cashmere, silk, etc.) and dragging it around the house in some sort of silent defiant protest whenever I worked late.

A pile of laundry with my husband’s clothes mixed up in it that I bagged and avoided like some sort of HAZMAT contaminant.

Balancing my laptop bag and a large hazelnut from Dunkin’ while trying to inhale an old-fashioned donut on a crosstown bus on my way to a gig at a studio so far west of Chelsea it should have had a Hoboken address.

It’s like my brain shut down and was only working in Safe Mode or something. All non-essential tasks were relegated to be handled at a later date.

I didn’t reboot until around New Year’s.

Maybe it’s shock, or transient global amnesia, or PTSD or something.

Whatever it is, it’s probably for the best really.

It’s funny what I do remember though.

I remember clearly sitting in a friend’s apartment at a sparse New Year’s Eve party feeling slightly over dressed and slightly overweight, staring at my engagement ring and my wedding band wondering what lie I would use to explain why my husband wasn’t with me.

Of course I played it all off and said that he was away on a project, which he frequently was, so no one questioned it.

I don’t think anyone noticed that I quickly downed my drink and shoved a handful of hors d’oeuvres in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to talk for a few minutes after that either.

When the clock struck twelve, I deftly sat between two single folks I’d just met and clinked glasses. I stared at my lap until the moment had passed so I wouldn’t have to see anyone kissing.

Yep. I definitely remember doing that.

After the party we walked a few blocks to a bar that was still going strong and everyone seemed to be excited to attend.

I decided I was leaving about 30 seconds after I got there because I was not ready to walk into a room full of college aged kids in a bar in Prospect Heights all grinding and drinking and young and thin and…

Yeah. You see where this is going right?

For some reason I remember those feelings of inadequacy quite clearly.

As I was leaving, I realized that I was going to have to walk down a few Brooklyn streets at 3am, in heels.

…by myself.

This is only temporary. Once we get to counseling this will all work out and we’ll be fine. This is only temporary.

As if the gods were listening, a young man (he looked to be about 15) and a woman (closer to my age) I recognized from the party both walked out behind me.

I decided to give them a lift home as a thank you for being my escorts. We struck up a rapport in the car and ended up at a 24 hour diner eating waffles on New Year’s Day.

I can’t remember either of their names.

I do remember thinking how easy it was for me to break bread with people I’d just met, but how impossible it was to even have dinner with my husband over the past few months.

This is only temporary. You’ll be fine.

I drove home as the sun was just coming up and just kicked off my heels and crawled into my empty bed. Little black dress, makeup and all.

I don’t remember what I did the next day.