It is quite the humbling experience to look back through your old journals. This journal, in particular, was my favorite; its metallic green and pink cover worn and faded from hiding underneath my mattress. It was my best friend for so long, my confidant. She holds my deepest and darkest secrets and feelings. She holds the despair of a woman whom I’m trying to leave in the dust….
There are days I look at myself dead square in my eyes and ask myself the question, “Is this really my life? Am I really parenting a 38-year-old man right now?!”.
This life is completely different than the one I had envisioned- the partnership, the white dress, the kisses goodnight, the trust. This life is the definition of anxiety. This life is torture.
I get out of bed everyday purely for the kids, I stay purely for the kids, but is staying in the pool of misery helping or hindering? Am I raising addicts? Am I raising codependents? I lay awake at night with those thoughts running through my head over and over and over again.
Do I run now and fight the custody fight? Do I stay until the kids are legal adults or at least old enough to care for themselves if he doesn’t come home?
Questions that swim in my head like the proverbial shark feasting on my positive energy and happiness, leaving paranoia and anxiety in its wake.
I look worn. I feel worn. This man has sucked the life from my body; and I have allowed it.