Monday.

I realize now, because it's all rushing back, that being with M alleviated a lot of my fear of aging. That I was interesting to a man 15 years younger than me was very, very reassuring. So, him losing interest had an extra punch.

I'm sort of wondering now how long it's normal to be so intensely sad. I'm still -- it's been what, like, well over a week? -- crying uncontrollably several times every day and avoiding the company of anyone but J because anything can set me off. I'm basically sitting in my room most of the day watching movies and maybe reading a bit. I don't want to pathologize what might be just a run-of-the-mill broken heart. On the other hand, I feel like I might need help.

I've thought about suicide a lot the last few days. I can't say I've contemplated killing myself, but I've ... pondered it. I've found some relief in googling “clean painless suicide” and reading all about the pros and cons of hanging and decapitation by train and various poisons. I don’t have the guts to kill myself, but it’s a way of imagining an end to this pain. I can’t imagine how else it will stop. The idea of living without love is too bleak to imagine, but the idea of ever being open to it again is terrifying.

I've been thinking about moving back to New York. The argument against it was always that I didn't know how I would make a living there, but lately I can't make a living anywhere, so New York isn't any more intimidating than any place else. There is no place that feels more like home to me than New York, and it's been so long since I've felt like I was home.