Day 63 and going strong...ish

Day 63 and going strong...ish

I never thought I'd start a blog.

Not that I don't like writing...I love to write. Writing has always been my escape, my means for coming to terms with the crazy world in which we all live. Blogging, on the other hand, is uncharted territory. 

I've read fabulous blogs and been completely overwhelmed by their amazingness. I always worried that I wouldn't get any followers if I started one, and everyone fears rejection, right?

But right now, I just don't care. I need the escape, and I need somewhere to log my feelings and come to terms with what's going on my life. Maybe this will be more of a diary that no one reads, which is totally fine.

Everyone goes through break ups. Even nasty, ridiculous, shit-will-never-be-the-same break ups. I guess I'm going through one now. I'm sitting here at 1:30 in the morning, with a glass of white wine, wondering where everything went to hell. No, that's not right. We always say "where did it go wrong?" when we know exactly where the pieces fell apart.

I was with my ex for 7 years. 7 freaking years. I can't pretend it was a good relationship because it certainly wasn't. We had more downs than ups, constant arguments, sometimes bordering on emotional and physical abuse. But 7 years is a long ass time to dedicate to one person. And we all get comfortable in situations that are obviously not right for us. I guess that's what happened. Even worse, we share a beautiful daughter together, so as messy as any break up gets, times that by 548296824 and you get my drift.

I know I made the right decision. Coming to grips with the thousands of dollars I lost when cancelling our wedding is painful, but worth it. Figuring out how best to set up visitations for our daughter is hard, but I want her to be the focus. But now this fucker stole my bed. And I feel like going completely ratchet...and curling up in a ball and crying at the same time.

It's just a BED, I tell myself. But the little devil in my ear tells me, it's YOUR bed, woman! You own so few valuable possessions, and you bought it brand new and were so freaking happy about the memory foam mattress! It's the biggest bed you've ever owned! That shit is yours! Flip out and rage, girl!

The angel tells me, get over it. It's just a bed and it's not worth it, let that asshole keep it and he can think about how fucked up he is every time he lays down in it. He stole from the mother of his child, and he has to live with that shit.

Ultimately, break ups are about a lot of things. The ending of a relationship, certainly. The awkwardness between families, of course. The parsing of property, definitely. But somehow, after all of this, after leaving him and being 63 days strong, I broke down and cried over a bed. Did I cry when I left him? Not a single tear. Did I cry when he acted crazy and followed me around, threatening to force me to talk to him? No way. But thinking about that douche curled up in the bed I bought with my hard earned money, having a comfortable night's rest, with no back problems because I got a top-notch mattress? Waterfall.