Mostly, I'm managing to keep myself busy with work and socializing. Distractions, so that I only get a little sad at night before sleeping...and if I'm lucky, I've tired myself out enough that I fall asleep quickly. But then there are days like yesterday when I wake up sad, stay sad all day, and then go sad to bed -- even though I also watch movies (the original Sabrina and The Iron Giant, both excellent), make dinner (garlic-tomato bruschetta to start, and then polenta baked with fresh tomato sauce and lots of basil), and read (after reading more than half of the Vintage book, I switched to the O. Henry book, which has stories that are just as accomplished and even more moving, I think -- less restrained).
I continue to keep busy because even though sometimes I just want to curl into a little ball and weep, I also know that that won't make me feel better either. I'm not sure what will make me feel better, other than caring less, and while I suppose time will accomplish that eventually, part of me doesn't want it to. It seems a terribly sad thing, to try to love someone less. It feels wrong, and I wonder if this can be wrong and still also necessary. It feels necessary too.
Writing is perhaps the only thing that actually feels right, that gives me some sense of moving forward rather than desperately trying to just hold steady. I just read the galley of an upcoming interview with Andy Duncan, a charming sf writer I know. He says,
"What do I get out of my writing? A momentary stay against confusion, a feeling of having ordered a small part of the world, to pleasant effect."
It helps a little.