I sat on the edge of the bed last night for thirty minutes with the phone in my hand. It’s been two months since she moved out. Two months for her to process the situation and cope with her emotions. Two months, perhaps, to brace herself for the inevitable phone call from me.

The thing is, I haven’t processed the situation. I haven’t really coped with my emotions. While I may have thought about that possible conversation, rehearsed some of the things I would say, I’m certainly not ready for it. How could I expect her to be?

I didn’t call her. Part of me told myself she wouldn’t even answer if I did, and I’m not even sure if that’s a cognitive distortion of not. The rest of me, though, didn’t call because I wasn’t ready, and I’m pretty sure she’s not ready either. I don’t know what I’d actually say. I don’t even know if I’d even be able to form words or if I’d just start crying and blubbering incoherently.

I haven’t really begun to clean up the things she left behind, or buy replacements for things that she took with her. I think it’s because, in my thought process, if we reconciled she would want those things, or we’d end up with too many of the things I replaced. Part of me still has that hope. Part of me wonders if that’s a form of cognitive distortion.

Either way, I’m going to have to call her at some point. I’m going to have to make an actual effort that’s more than just writing her letters and leaving them with her mail. One-sixth of the mandatory year of trial separation required for divorce has passed.

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