The Break Up

I watched my husband the other night as he checked his Blackberry for the millionth time in five minutes. I don’t get mad when he does that; he has to. He’s a journalist. He needs to know if there is an important story happening at all times. But when something comes up and we can’t hold a conversation, I am left feeling a little empty.

“Sorry, babe,” he says. He kisses me. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“It’s okay,” I lie, kissing him back.

Each time this happens I think back to when we were living in Cairo, Egypt. He was working really long hours back then, too. He was the head of a financial business magazine and basically ran the entire publication from beginning to end. I was at a low point in my career and we had been living abroad for five years by then. My father had recently died, most of my close friends had moved away and I was feeling exceptionally lonely.

“I’m moving back to the States at the beginning of the year,” I announced to him one night. It was early October when I made my declaration. “I want you to join me, but if not, I’m going anyway and you can come when you’re ready.”

“Huh?” he said. He knew I was unhappy but he didn’t realize how unhappy. He loved Egypt and had no intention of leaving any time soon. I, however, ended my affair long ago with Om el Donia (which is Cairo's nickname, meaning, in Arabic, Mother of the World).

“How?” he asked. “We don’t have jobs there.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I just cannot live here any longer.”

I told him I needed to be near people who knew me. I missed my friends in California and wanted to be around people who understood me. He knew the friends I made in my late teens and 20s have always been like family to me. Being around them warmed my soul and made me happy. I craved their good vibes and positive energy.

He saw the desperation in my eyes. He hugged me and said we would work on this together. In February of the following year, we moved – together – to a city neither of us knew well or had ever lived in. It wasn't what I had hoped for but at least I was in my home country. I had only one close friend in the city, but at the time, that was enough for me. I needed at least one person to talk to who knew my history and didn’t judge me.

Ten years later I find myself in that same lonely pit. I still miss my friends in California. I am nowhere near people who know me well. The friends I made since I have been here have gotten much more involved in their own lives. I’ve become disappointed with what I assumed friendships meant and realize my expectations may be too high for people to meet. I don’t have a lot in common with the folks around me. As I sometimes sensed in Cairo, I feel completely misunderstood.

This time, however, I can’t just pick up and move. My husband has a job he loves and my kids are in schools they adore. I know I can’t leave but I need to find a solution. Soon.

My therapist says I should take the time to find a job I will enjoy because she knows, at heart, I love to work. She’s right. Perhaps feeding that part of my soul will help ease the other. But cannot feasibly go to work full time until Aimee is in first grade, which is in two and a half years.

The light at the end of my tunnel is terribly dim. I hope it gets brighter quickly.