As I rolled through Central Illinois, my anxiety gave way to disbelief. At my core, this felt right. But holy shit, so wrong, too. I’m not the kind of woman whose life falls apart so drastically, so dramatically. I’m the kind of woman who’s capable of anything, who’s in control, who keeps all the balls in the air.
My cell phone rang mid-afternoon. John. Had he found the letter? Or was he just calling to ask about dinner? Panic, panic, panic. I took the call. He seemed to share my own shock that I was capable of writing “Dear John.” Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you?
He wanted to talk. I mean really TALK, to find the right words and enough emotion to get me to turn my car around. Regardless of what he said, I just kept repeating, “You’re going to be OK.” I told him that we’d talk tomorrow, when I was in Minnesota.
I wasn’t ready to speak my mind yet. I needed the miles and the time to cleanse myself entirely from the filth of dysfunction that had permeated my heart. Probably even my clothes and hair, like the stale cigarette smoke that clings to your jeans after a night in a smoky bar. Maybe that’s why I forgot to pack any pants or shoes.
I am stopping by for your SITS day and trying to start at the beginning to read.
I just got divorced – 27 years old – 4 years and one child later…I couldn’t recognize the woman I had become and the woman I “was” I loved – “this” woman – I despised.
Thank you for opening up your heart and life to help others.
And the last paragraph…about “filth of dysfunction” and how it lingers…clings to you…oh yes how I understand that. More than I want to admit.