Three separate addresses in the last five months, met with a new counselor, a new doctor, living a new life balancing open dialogue with consideration for what may be TMI. Revisiting old struggles, living with my family again, matters I never quite dealt with before.
This last weekend, I stringently protected my time, I made no plans, I gave a gentle “no” to each person seeking my time. I slept. I watched mindless shows on Netflix. I struggled to tap into the place where my words and stories come from, and though it was mostly unsuccessful, it was a start.
Saturday night, late – the pent up emotions released. Signing the final sale documents on our home was about as hard as signing the original documents to begin the process of my divorce. Is it strange I’m grieving the loss of my home so much more than the loss of my marriage? Even if I am alone for the rest of my life, I am already so much more peaceful than I have been over the past few years. Yet I still miss owning my own place, having the freedom to design and decorate as I want. Having something of mine. It is frustrating having to reintegrate pets again, after spending the last five months struggling to integrate them the first time. They aren’t handling the change particularly well either.
That said, my room is about twice the size as it was before, and I have a walk-in closet. Which means I have enough space to have my books all about me, and I am so very eager to have them around again. The companions of so many years. I regret my Ex’s needling me to constantly cull down, and that I got rid of so many.
Bills are now reasonable enough for me to manage on my own, even if my Ex continues to forgo any contributions. I am trusting that the lawyers will make all equal. I want no more, and no less, than my share. My counselor is encouraging me in this, though she says normally she encourages people to back off.
I’m tired of being a doormat, tired of falling back to always taking up the smallest footprint possible so as not to disturb everyone else. Yet it is so uncomfortable, to try and make myself heard. Anxiety builds whenever I have to give people a response I don’t think they want or will like. I suppose most of that is from dealing with my ex over the years, his rages could be so unpredictable.
I miss the man he could have been, and not the man he chose to be.
It feels wrong that I should spare any feelings for him at all. Even now I still have a hard time holding on to any anger. There is more just a sense of sadness, of disappointment.
Anyhow, enough ramblings for now…