If someone had asked me more than a week before how I would react if Molly left me, this is not what I would have described.  “I’d be able to watch my team lose in football without interruption” would have been the response.  But not this.  A week of pretending nothing was wrong, interspersed with moments of panic and foreboding, in which I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t see straight, couldn’t stop crying.  When was the last time I cried?  It had to have been a while before, because I was genuinely surprised at how heaving sobs could feel good and bad at the same time.

Maybe if I had seen it coming…but I hadn’t.  I thought Molly was happy.  I thought she loved me.  I thought we were going to grow old together.  Maybe that’s what scared her.  Maybe she wasn’t scared at all, but she really wasn’t happy, and I was just oblivious.  I could go on forever with maybes, but they didn’t help me figure things out standing in front of those sinks in that bathroom.   Nothing had ever hurt as bad as Molly leaving.  Nothing.  The pain was palpable too, more physical than mental or emotional.  It hurt in my throat and my chest, and made breathing very difficult.  When it was at its worst, the panic attacks would return.