I guess I'm not as special as I thought. I've been patting myself on the back these past few weeks for the awesome progress I've made. I've crawled my way from incredible darkness, unable to get out of bed in the morning, crying every single day to the point I couldn't breathe, can't sleep, can't eat, can't think...to where I am now: excited about the future, looking forward to tomorrow, thinking about next week, next month, next year with hope.
And throughout all that I've managed to get a boy into college (we fast tracked through the application process to moving into the dorm in less than 60 days.) I've managed not to lose my job, not to get behind on my mortgage, not to kill my husband (in spite of my overwhelming desire to mow him down with my car in the bank parking lot a few weeks ago). Excellent progress.
I thought I was done! I thought I was finished with the ugly part of my journey. I thought I had moved through those 5 stages at lightening speed. But I was wrong. Yesterday, I thought about my husband and marriage all day long. Twice I picked up the phone to call him. Not to chat, but rather to bitch about the mess he's made of our lives. I'm glad I didn't.
When it was good, our marriage was very good. When it came to a screeching halt 10 weeks ago as he moved out, it was the most awful ugly mass of pain I've ever encountered. Was that really just 10 weeks ago? Good golly. Perhaps I am justified in feeling so pleased with myself. I've covered a lot of ground in 10 weeks! Never one to sit still and let the grass grow, I have completely overhauled my life in 10 short weeks.
Maybe my husband threw me head first out the window, but I managed to grab on to a life parachute and slowly, gradually float my way into a new life. I'm not without my bumps and bruises, and my heart and soul are nearly unrecognizable, but I'm intact. I'm whole. I survived.
