The last five years have felt pretty safe.
Being at home either pregnant, postpartum, or generally in the thick of being a full-time homemaker.
Joe was like a security blanket to me.
History does not mean it is healthy.
After nine years total, it is hard as hell to find comfort in being alone.
I wish I could bullshit you and fill this entry with lies about how strong I’m feeling.
The last few weeks I have struggled a lot with “am I breaking up my family?” “will I regret this?” “was it really so bad?” Am I breaking up my family?”
It’s a heavy thought to process.
The question is surrounded by shame and guilt.
Lennox is having a hard time emotionally.
I feel responsible for breaking his heart.
I feel responsible for the less time he gets with his dad.
I’m suppose to shield him from hurt but, I can’t protect him from this transition.
Will I regret this? It’s murky waters I’m wading through.
In one hand there is nostalgia.
I can reminisce endlessly on the past.
In the other hand there is sheer fear for my mental health and emotional well-being.
Was it really so bad?
Not everyday, but the bad days were terrible.
There is this scene in Sex and the City, (movie) when Samantha is considering breaking up with Smith.
Carrie asks her if she’s happy and Samantha says “Relationships aren’t always about being happy, right?”
Followed by her asking Charlotte how often she feels happy in her relationship.
Charlotte answers “Everyday, not all day everyday, but everyday.”
Hear me when I say I know I took vows.
For better or for worse.
Hear me when I say I wish so badly it didn’t have to be like this.
I never wanted to transition my two young children to having two separate households.
Hear me when I say this fucking hurts.
It’s taking family photos off the fridge, putting my wedding ring in a box, or leaving laundry piled up on the empty side of the bed.
I’m coming up on a year since I’ve had my miscarriage.
I think that along with finally filing our divorce papers has me very emotional.
I don’t wanna front, flex, pretend. I am not feeling my best right now.
I feel like I’m grieving.
After I took the test (and before the miscarriage happened) Joe asked me if we should explore other options.
He was worried my mental health wouldn’t be able to handle another baby with Colbie only being 8 months old.
The truth being, my mental health wasn’t okay because he was not doing what he should of been as a partner.
I took care of everything, who took care of me?
How could he not see that I was struggling?
Or if he did- why didn’t he step in to help?
It was never about the dishes, trash, or feeding the dogs. It was always about caring enough for me to think “what can I do to help Mikah so that her day goes smoother?”
It was never about date nights.
It was always about “what can I do to show Mikah that I care about her?”
It was never about the video games.
It was always about “why is there time for this but none of my needs are being met?”
I begged for change. I begged for investment into my love language.
I begged for support. Somehow responsibilities were still left unfinished.
On my birthday last year, I told him a week in advance that we would have a sitter for the night and to figure something out.
Friday rolled around, Mimi showed up to get the kids and he had nothing planned.
He said “what do you want to do?” I just remember feeling crushed. Disappointed.
I went to the bathroom to cry. One time I decided I would say nothing to him about playing, to see how many nights in a row he would.
TWO FUCKING WEEKS.EVERY GODDAMN NIGHT!
What does staying up playing video games lead to?
Him watching porn late at night.
Which inevitably resulted in us not having sex and me feeling like absolute shit about myself.
I’m having to initiate, followed by being rejected.
Is it me?
It it because I don’t look like I use to?
Is my vagina different since giving birth?
He will tell you my lack of respect for him caused him to feel underappreciated.
I read something that said “a person who feels appreciated will always do more than is expected.”
And it kinda hurt, because I know that fault is on me.
His love language is words of affirmation.
If you KNOW me- you’ll be well aware that my mouth can be a killer.
I am a cutter with my words.
I dig deep and I can be cruel.
I fucked up by projecting my love language onto him.
I was so busy trying to make him feel love the way that I do.
I neglected to fill his tank with what he needed the most.
Many times I called him a loser for leaving priorities behind.
Each time I did, I created more of a wall between us.
Brick by brick, I helped seal it.
I grew resentful of him and he did the same with me.
We equally chose not to do the hard thing and that slowly eroded our relationship.
The hard thing being vulnerability.
Nothing breaks a bond quicker than shame and there was plenty of that.
When September of last year rolled around I had winter blues following the miscarriage.
In October we had a nasty fight.
I can’t for the life of me remember what it was even about.
I just know that’s what caused “the girls” (girl gang) (ride or die) (tribe) (we who shall not be named) to gift me the money they did for classes in the Spring.
I wasn’t ready to leave then but deep down I knew I wanted to.
November was weird because it was the first holiday in a new ‘home.
‘By December I had put on an extra 15 pounds and had not emotionally processed the past four months.
I’ve told my story before but I’m going to tell it again.
December 9th I made a list of things I needed to do for myself.
1. Go to the doctor for antidepressants
2. Go to school
3. Go to therapy
4. File for divorce
December 16th I went into the doctor.
A few days later I bought a spin bike from Costco.
January 1st I started therapy.
January 17th I started classes to become an RDA.
By February I had dropped the 15 pounds, plus some.
I was up by 5-6 a.m.(a side effect of Zoloft was being restless so that is what led to the early mornings) and I was working out 4 days a week.
I was consciously choosing to drink more water, cook better, and started making time for positive content.
I was in full throttle mode when it came to building myself back up.
At the end of February I got a spray tan. I was walking around the house one night naked.
Joe saw me and said “well now that you are hot again”
And those words still haunt me.
It wrecked me.
I remember crying myself to sleep that night, only thinking “this dude doesn’t deserve me.”
If I wasn’t done before, I am now.
In March the shift into separation began.
We had a fight and Joe said something to purposely get a rise out of me.
I called him out on the gas lighting and I will never forget what he said.
“gAs LiGhTiNg IsN’t ReAl. YOu NeEd To WoRk On CoNtrOlLiNg YoUrSeLf MoRe.”
I told him my therapist told me to say “Gas lighting is real and that is what you are doing”.
To which he replied “Your therapist doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You should probably find a new one.”
I don’t know why but that flipped a switch in me.
He no longer had access to me. I was done.
D O N E.
TAKE ME OFF THE GRILL CAUSE I’M BURNT TO A CRISP DOOOONNNNNNEEE.
Without sounding dramatic, I suffered enough growing up.
To now be an adult and feel unloved and unwanted became unacceptable the further I got in my progress.
To me, it felt like I had dug myself out of the hole alone and he wanted to reap the benefits of that.
Blame it on the childhood trauma but once you start to threaten my well-being, my gut reaction is to fight or flight.
I had already fought for so many years.
It was time to flee. I made chaos my home and that’s not necessary anymore.
Yes it hurts.
But does it just hurt because its new?
Growth can be miserable.
I hate doing the day to day work.
I hate still feeling achy sometimes.
I hate a quiet Tuesday night by myself.
I don’t miss mistaking co-dependency for love.
I don’t miss the gas lighting.
I don’t miss the all night fights.
The calm that fills my home now makes me happy.
I’m not happy everyday all day, but I’m happy everyday.
I have a lot more healing to do.
Skills to learn.
Goals to achieve.
I know the future will hold failure that’s inevitable but I’m not scared of that.
“I am no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop; it already did and I survived.”
P.S. still fuck you Kathy.