I started to feel like I was counting down to a death. Not my death; defiantly something dying and I couldn’t participate in that behavior any longer. I leave carrying burdens I didn’t think I would have to pile into my moving truck, but it is worth every brick in my suitcase.
I decided I needed room to breathe. I felt suffocated and surrounded at all times in our shared townhouse. It is large and she gave me plenty of space to rattle around in, but I grew tired of the demons that would pop up with no notice. The issues that were the cause of us divorcing still surfaced to destroy any daily joy. I find I am speaking in past tense, because as soon as I made the decision to move, I left. Mentally, not physically of course, but none the less, an ending happened. Surprisingly, it gave a tiny bit of relief. I would call it a true account of…the other shoe dropped.
I am moving out at the end of November into a fabulous one bedroom apartment. It is a newly built place, I will be the first to climb its walls on a lonely Saturday night, burn toast in the kitchen, stare out the windows at the snow falling, and sleep peacefully in my own sanctuary bedroom. I can explore new loves, reconnect with old friends, and write! I can leave my socks on the floor, walk naked to the bathroom, and cry. The kind of crying you can’t do until you feel completely safe. The kind of crying that requires a glass of wine, a playlist of songs that break your heart and soft bed at the end. I know it is coming, I can feel it sitting right behind my eyes, waiting for freedom. I don’t even know if it is the kind that can be seen by another, because it holds so much past pain and failure. Incomprehensible by anyone, but the keeper of the tragedy. I don’t remember the last time I grieved…
Wish me luck!
More from love