Being the good passive-aggressive Minnesotan man that I am, I've emailed Sarah this morning about why, when I saw her entering the building last night, I bailed out to my car, drove to Dunn Brothers, and went for a long walk. What prompted such odd behavior? Three months ago we met, and essentially moved in together. I can say unequivocally that it's been a wonderful three months, and that I've rarely been happier, save for one niggling thing: I have been going on roughly six hours of sleep a night, for the last ninety days. I'm shot. My eyes are half-lidded, droopy, with dark hammocks beneath them.
Last night, I slept alone, and got the best goddamn sleep I've had in recent memory. Thing is, why do I feel like such a heel? Also, why is it so hard to just tell her that I need some time away from her? Maybe it's because I really like her, and don't want her to think I'm avoiding her; but then, disappearing doesn't much help foster confidence.
I won't martyr myself here: work is stressful for me, and this month has been particularly so. Sarah hasn't worked much, living as she has off her savings. I'm glad she's able to do this, and that she can enjoy her time. When I get home, and want to stare at the wall versus going out with her friends, or seeing her mother, she's raring to do things. I've been complicit, since I want to see her, but, man, I'm fried.
Anyway, it's nothing a few days rest won't cure, provided guilt doesn't gnaw at me.
No comments:
Post a Comment