I’d like to think we tried everything to save our marriage.
Couples therapy until we were blue in the face.
More quality time. More time apart. Family vacations. Medication.
Hoping. Praying. Having a baby.
I posted beautiful family photos on Facebook and wrote funny blog posts. Maybe the Internet could help me create the life I really wanted.
We met the summer after freshman year of high school, and I spent the next 18 years along side the quiet blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy from Driver’s Education.
6,570 days to be exact. 10 years of marriage. A war. A college degree. Two children.
I remember a time when we were very much in love. When we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. When we passed notes to each other in class, and mailed love letters between states.
Those memories seem distant now. Like a dimly lit room in the back of someone else’s house.
Over the years, our teenage infatuation devolved into a relationship fraught with disappointment, resentment…sadness. There were happy times too. But they became fewer and farther between.
Ultimately we felt empty, indifferent toward each other.
After we had Libby, I panicked and begged him to fix us. But he didn’t know how, and neither did I.
Three months later, I asked him to leave.
It’s been six months since then, and I am only now sitting down to write this.
I knew seeing these words on screen would make them real, and I didn’t want to say them out loud.
It’s a strange thing, divorce.
Sometimes it feels like sweet relief. Like I can finally breathe.
Other times the pain is so great I fear I might stop breathing altogether.
This can’t be my life, I think.
A single parent? A failure.
Who will love me? Who will love my babies?
I’m looking for a thirty-something libra with saggy boobs, stretch marks and two children.
Said no man ever.
But it is my hope that we will both find love again.
That he will find the woman who makes him smile his beautiful smile.
Someone who makes him want to be a better man. Who puts the lights back in his eyes.
It is my hope that we find the people who can enhance our lives and our children’s lives – in a way we couldn’t for each other.
People who can become a part of our village.
I read somewhere that the hardest thing to overcome in life is the loss of someone who is still alive.
It’s true, I think.
But I don’t regret the last decade of my life.
I don’t regret our son or baby girl.
Our beautiful mess led us to this place. And we’re going to be okay.