It was suggested to me, by my therapist, to journal my feelings when I am feeling upset/anxious/depressed. Write three pages, she said. Three? How about an entire book?
Also, practice “square breathing”. That’s where you take a deep breath in for a count of four, hold it for a count of four, release it for a count of four and hold that for a count of four. I guess you forget what’s upsetting you after awhile of counting to four repeatedly. If I practice these techniques, I may quiet the voice in my head that replays every negative experience of this holy grail of suffering, and possibly find release from the never ending ruminating that I tend to do.
But instead, I’ve decided that maybe I’ll just up the dose of my antidepressant and see where that takes me.
I’m already in therapy, talking about my feelings and how this all affects me and my kids. That’s enough of an exercise for me, for now, thank you very much.
I have days where life is finally turning the corner, the sun is brighter and the sky is bluer. Then, I have days that are dark and sad and feel so heavy that I can’t move. That’s the rollercoaster, I know. That’s “normal”, I get it. I just wish this ride was over and I could go to a new park, with better rides, and happy people that are nice to me.
Is that too much to ask?
I thought that I didn’t hate him. Turns out I was wrong. I hate him everyday.
I hate him for everything he’s become, for bullying me into going along with a fixed game that I am always on the losing team, for being so incredibly selfish and self involved.
Honestly, I don’t hate him as much for the things that he has said and done to me, I hate him for his total disregard and dismissal of his children. Of our children. That we, as a couple, made the choice to bring into the world.
I hate him for his complete dishonesty, the cowardly way he omits from the conversation what he does with his free time on the weekends. The weekends that he is only 45 minutes away from his kids. The weekends he flies in on his company’s dime for his “commuting package”, only to spend six hours a week with our boys. (I wonder if they know just how “dedicated” he really is to his children? I wonder if they realize that he is whooping it up in the city, with expensive dinners and night clubbing, that keep him busy until Sundays at noon when he finally sees his boys?)
I hate him for his sickening performance of “how hard this is”, (“this” being not seeing his kids on a regular basis because he now lives in California) while he gets choked up and teary eyed in front of our lawyers and mediator, and anyone who asks or will listen, yet makes no effort towards his children.
He texts them once a week. Once. A. Week. And it’s the exact same text to each boy, “how’s it going son?” as if he’s forgotten their names.
This whole “midlife crisis” idea is absolutely fucking ridiculous. Be a fucking grown up!
And it’s not about our marriage being over, I think I accepted that pretty quickly. Almost with a sense of relief, to be truthful. It’s about his relationship with his children, or lack thereof, and the challenge it creates for me to try to shield them from his selfishness.
Honestly, it’s like watching the same film from my childhood replaying, but everyone has cooler stuff and better clothes. He’s become my father. And that makes me sick.
I have made it my mission in my life to protect my kids, to shield them from ugliness, like any good mother would. I don’t want to see them hurting, I don’t want to see them disappointed, or feeling unloved or unwanted. I want them to feel safe, and loved entirely.
I know that they feel it from me, that they know they are loved and are vitally important to me like the air that I breathe, but it will always be half as good. There will always be an empty space that he was supposed to fill, but won’t.