The last 24 hours are a strong contender for the “worst day ever” trophy. I cried on the QEW. I cried on the 427. I cried on Weston Road. I cried when I saw the little white picket fence that marks our driveway. I cried at the sight of the backyard. I cried at putting the key in the lock. I cried when I hugged Kari. I cried when I saw Bunny. I cried when I saw our bed, looking just like it did when I left.

My face looks like ground beef, I’ve been crying so much.

Packing your belongings away into plastic Rubbermaid containers, watching books disappear off shelves and clothing leaving the closet to have only empty space left behind, when you don’t know where or when they will be opened again, is like watching your life implode. Everything gets smaller. You feel as though you are getting smaller, too.

Kari’s mom was there, and she tried to be helpful by saying that this was a good way to clean out, get rid of old things, streamline. She compared it to when she and her husband were leaving their home of 18 years to downsize to a smaller place. What she doesn’t understand is that I would give anything to have been in her place then. To be moving out of a home I’d shared with my loving family for almost two decades into a new phase of our lives – together. Rather than this monstrous feeling of loneliness and loss and solitude and incomprehension, like the weird jolt of being woken up abruptly from a dream when you thought you were already awake. What happened?

Packing is painful and brutal, especially when one of you is staying and the other going. I found postcards from two years ago that say he misses everything about me, that he loves me and can’t wait to get home so he can hold me. And now that feeling is gone, is dead in him. But not in me.

I know the angst will lessen when my things are out of the house, but it’s not going to be quick or easy. Nobody can really help me pack and sort – I have to decide for myself what stays and what goes. But the work goes really slowly when you have to stop every ten or fifteen minutes because you’re so sad and your chest is so heavy that you can’t keep your arms moving. Also hard to motivate yourself when you don’t really want to leave at all. Occasionally I get these mad, irrational thoughts that I should just unpack, stay, pretend like nothing’s wrong. Deny that anything has happened. I worked for hours and hours yesterday, and I’ve barely made a dent.

He’s probably home by now, reading the notes I left him. Please ask Glenda for my books back. Please give these cushions to your mom. Please accept this thing in exhange for that other thing.

I resisted the urge to write the note I really wanted to leave. Please reconsider.