I'm doing well. I want to thank everybody out there who left me comments and encouragement. It was a tough thing to do. I had been thinking about it for days and days (but really almost a year, if not more). In the office, talking about it, or in the car--thinking about it--I could envision myself being strong. I was angry and hurt and felt like I was silly for sticking around so much because really, I deserved better. And for all the moments up until I said to him, "How do you feel about being just friends?", I was confident that I was right. I was confident that I'd be happier. That it wouldn't be any different since he treats me no different than a friend anyway. I was resenting it when I knew he wanted sex; resented the fact that he couldn't reach for me even then. That he'd stretch his arm over his head and surreptitiously and almost violently, prop his elbow by my head, trying to slide it under--force it under. I resented that even when it was time to share our only affection, the only time he kissed me on my lips willingly or put his arms around me without patting my back--he still couldn't reach for me. He still couldn't be courteous or sensitive or gentle or kind. But when we did have sex, during the actual moment, he was sweet and impassioned. Still . . . I was beginning to feel as if I were a little too convenient.

Yet the day of, I cried all day at work. Every time I wanted to say something, I could feel the tears rising. So I would behave as if I was freed from some insufferable bond. As if I had been a prisoner for years and now I was finally free of something annoying and scratchy. I acted a little too chipper; wore lipstick a little too red. And when I got home, I just sobbed. That is the real reaction I think. The sobbing. Jon asked what was wrong and I couldn't decide if I was angry that he could ask such a daft question or if I wanted to tell him I wanted to back out. I regretted every bringing it up. I wondered what would have happened with us if I hadn't said anything at all.

Jon did make me feel better. I don't know how, but he assured me we'd stay friends. After looking at the apartment that very same day, I looked around and realized I'd be living by myself. I started crying. Over and over, crying. All alone. Nobody to come over and curl up with me at night in the bed. No arm to reach over to and squeeze whenever I want to feel something solid and alive beside me.

Then I wondered if maybe it isn't anybody that would do. Is it really just Jon or do I want someone? Anyone? Comfort and softness, right there, for me to touch and love and hold. I'll love every child I hold in my arms at work and I'll kiss them and hug them and twirl them around and tell them I love them. I don't care how much they cry; I thrive on the moments I share love with someone.

Then I felt it was all ridiculous. Maybe we don't have to cut ties completely. Maybe all we need is just to live apart for a while; not sleep with each other. Let's still sit on the couch together. Let me still hold your hand. Let me still try to put my head or my feet on your lap. Let me still hang on to you and hug you and feel you right there, beside me, warm and comforting.

Now I don't know. Now I feel like I can go out, flirt. I look at men's faces as they turn toward me in their cars then pass by around the corner. I wonder if I can fall in love with them. I wonder if maybe I'm missing the connection. I wonder if maybe I'm just lonely and want to feel something comfortable. Only in all the faces I look at, I see boredom and a person I wouldn't want to try to figure out. I like the idea of having fun. I like the idea of saying, "Come to my house and hold me during lunch; maybe I'll see you again. Thank you." I have no idea if I can do that.

I think I'll cry more, for a long time. I can't deny that I love Jon with all my heart and a huge part of me really does want to get back with him, to make him see me and say, "What an idiot! Why couldn't I just reach out?" And another part of that huge part is whispering to me that he's concentrating on his dissertation. He compartmentalizes his life and right now, his goal is his work. Once t hat's complete, he can consider what place love will hold. And then there's the part that says, "He's relieved. He's actually relieved." And then there's the part that I think is the truth, that's scary and vile and hurts and scratches. The part of other people and objectiveness and all those stories I've told about how sad I am, how frustrated and weary and lonely I am. The part that says, "There's somebody else; accept that he isn't the one." Only I'm not sure if I can. I know I've been treating him differently today. As if I'm angry with him. I think I am. Because he doesn't look like he's saying, "Why couldn't I just reach out?"

I'm curious about my future. That's the part that makes me feel excited.

But I'm afraid that I'll find someone again�and it will end in exactly this same way.

I hate breaking my own heart.