I look at my new son, and some of the anger and hurt and pain goes away. I hear my daughter laugh and forget I was just about to cry. And then… I look away, another sound catches my ear, and it all comes rushing back. Not only am I dealing with the actual facts of the situation, I’m dealing with my own fears and speculations- is there more than he’s admitting? And the Sex in the City scenes flashing through my head don’t help at all.
We are going tonight to talk to some friends that have made it through this. I know it’s necessary, but I’m petrified. The last time we tried to talk to someone about the problems we were having I felt blame. I felt stupid and belittled and blamed. (Funny how I still very much respect the people we were talking to, I just really felt like they were having a very off-day that day.) I don’t want that to happen again. It can’t happen again.
So much of myself wants to run away. Then there is a little bit bigger part of myself that is looking past the self preservation and remembering to grab the kids on the way out the door. Then, the bigger part of myself that knows that space isn’t the answer. It’s not even really what I want, but the pain is making me feel claustrophobic right now and it’s the only answer I can think of. At least I’m smart enough to know that the pain claustrophobia won’t go away just because I’m in a different state. It’ll follow me, it has no boundaries.
So I’ll stay. We have to get through this somehow. I have to get through this somehow.