September 29, 2015
My fingers are numb. My earlobes are tingling. I have chills and my hands are sweaty. In spite of my attempts at deep breathing, I feel breathless and light headed. Google says it’s an anxiety attack. I felt it just last week on #3’s birthday, when we went to Lagoon for the last time as a family. I told him that I wanted to work on us. I wanted to go to counseling to see how to fix us, what to expect and what the next steps would be. Less than 6 hours later, everything changed. For the second time in two years, any hope of my family being…not what it once was, but maybe what I’d always wanted it to be, was completely shattered. Right now, I can’t even write about the events of that following day. As my heart palpitates so furiously I can hear the blood pumping in my ears, I wonder how I’ll make it through this day. I can’t even think about getting through the week yet.
I’m meeting a friend for lunch. I double check my make-up but sadly, nothing has changed. My eyes show the irrefutable evidence of a million tears shed and nights without sleep. I should be good at this. I’m familiar with rejection and forcing myself to face the day with its seemingly insignificant tasks; of faking it. Because really, that’s what I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember now; continuing the charade, wearing the mask so I can spare anyone from glimpsing my sorrow, thereby relieving them of their obligation to say something…anything to make it hurt less. Somehow, this feels like it hurts more than last time, more than ever. Or have I forgotten? Perhaps it’s the finality with which he unintentionally ended our future.
I haven’t spoken to him since Friday. Since then I can’t get through an hour in each day without reminding myself to breath, reciting mantras in my head, and pleading with God to make the pain stop and to let me get through the next five minutes before the process starts over again. I repeatedly get up from my desk to grab a tissue and take a quick walk, hoping that no one will notice the constant blotting of my eyes. Stupidly, I continue to look over my shoulder, out the window for that off white Ford. I’m only now becoming aware of how very many there are. I miss him. Like crazy I miss him. I miss seeing a text or getting a call. It’s funny that while my gut never stopped telling me that something was wrong, I hoped beyond hope that it was my own nerves. And maybe it’s my fault. I kept myself guarded and distant with one foot out the back door.
And now, the knowledge that, in the end, he still didn’t choose me, threatens to haunt me indefinitely. Part of me feels deserving of this. I verbally expressed caution and doubt, while my mind went there and hoped. I already assumed that my family would make it. The only person that I want to comfort me is the one that keeps putting me in this place. Is it any wonder that my life is where it’s at when I crave the attention of my abuser? I’m that girl now. The one that justifies the mistreatment because of my own real and perceived actions and flaws. And I wish I did things differently, but would it have mattered? Or does it even matter if it didn’t fix things if I could honestly say that I did everything?
Instead of feeling the confidence of someone that has been here before and beaten this before, I feel overwhelming hopelessness at the very idea of attempting to get through this.
*This* wasn’t just my heart or my ego. This was my family. My daughter. The only thing I’ve ever wanted in this life was to be a wife and mother. To take care of my children and pass my beliefs and values onto them.