If you’ve been around here for awhile, you know that my family has been going through something since June. I’ve been posting sporadically since then and only occasionally referencing the total suckage that has become my life, without getting into detail.
I thought that maybe I had it in me to continue posting innocuous, funny stories and use my blog as an escape from the bitter, harsh reality that I am living.
I admit defeat. The funny continues to elude me. I hope that won’t always be the case. But for the moment, it is.
My blog has always been based on my life. My stories are grounded in truth albeit garnished with a bit of exaggeration. I drew my inspiration from my husband and my kids. And my dog’s poop.
I loved my life. Even the poop behind the couch was expected, a familiar constant, a sign that yes, my life was average and normal and predictable but in a good, comforting way.
There is nothing predictable about my life now. I am struggling to find any source of comfort. I have been thrown into a new normal and I am floundering.
The man I have deeply loved for fourteen years, my husband for the last twelve, with whom I raised a family I adore, the subject of so many stories on this blog, is no longer the man I know. He hasn’t been for some time but I kept fighting to bring him back because denial is a wonderful thing. It shields you from pain so horrendous, you cannot even imagine.
But reality is brutal and merciless and it comes at you at warp speed when you least expect it, cloaked in a frigid coat of betrayal so staggering and cruel, it knocks you breathless and senseless, leaving you doubled-over with gut-wrenching sorrow.
For the preservation of myself and that of our kids, I have made an agonizing decision to separate our lives.
I am inconsolable. I am numb. I feel so empty.
I think I am still in shock.
And I am so profoundly sad that it is hard to simply breathe.
The rational, logical part of me knows that I am a strong woman and that I will be OK. That these were his choices and not a reflection on me. That I’ve already proven I can single parent, having done it for the last two years in one sense or another. That there are still blessings in my life and that I am so incredibly fortunate to have two wonderful daughters who really, if truth be told, are the only reasons I have continued to wake up every morning and get out of bed.
But I cannot reconcile that part of me with the emotional part of me which still cannot grasp the enormity of what has happened to us. The part that is wondering what is wrong with me, why wasn’t I good enough, pretty enough, whatever enough. The part that is heartbroken and feels like a colossal failure. The part that is desperately trying to make sense of this, the part that refuses to believe that the man I so deeply love could have done the things he did, the part that cannot come to grips with the overwhelming loss, the part that can’t look at anything without being blindsided by a memory of our life together.