It’s happened. After 9 months of separation, living under the same roof, He has moved out. I feared, even just a few weeks ago, that the dissolution of the partnership would dissolve me. For … who have I been these many years? Someone’s wife. Someones’ mother. Someones’ nurse. An employee. A student. A patient. A victim. A fuck. An income. Defined in relation to others. Defined by a role I assume in daily life. Defined by an affliction. Defined by an action. Valued for the pleasure others can derive from their interaction with me.
I feel liberated. I feel relieved. I feel renewed - like I have the energy to sort through all these material things and purge, purge, purge. An external activity and process that mirrors my internal processes. Scatter and gather.
~ now ~
I have decided to revert back to my maiden name. I even purchased the letters to place on the mailbox ... to replace my married surname. I sleep alone ... I awake alone. Except for a grey feline ~ a female feline. She likes to wake me up by sitting atop me ... and kneading my hair with her paws. Personally, I prefer this method of wake-up to manipulative demands for sex. Making myself a man's prey quite hinders my sense of self worth. I'm no man's fucking pleasure vessel. I'm me. I don't know what exactly that entails yet, but I think I like it.
I have learned that it really doesn't benefit anyone to remain in a sparkless, lifeless marriage. No one ends up a winner when one sacrifices one's happiness for the longevity of a marriage. When life becomes a series of habitual scenarios and people strung together, as opposed to a mindful challenge, we've lost. And ... do we need to exist solely in pairs? Who says?
The other day, I drew the Death Tarot Card. For those of you unfamiliar with tarot, this card symbolises transformation and rebirth. And, so ... the end becomes the beginning. I see my life and the people in it thru an entirely different prism. Soon, I will mark a year of separation from my husband. No chance of reconciliation exists. He has chosen another path. A dark path. He has become a stranger to me. He's stolen from me [yeah, cleaned out my bank account, days before rent day!], and then told me prefers living on the street, where he gets robbed, than 'get fleeced by [me]' ... and he constantly insinuates that i am faking this depression and mental illness stuff. Yes, I do not know this person. And ... he does not know me. Irregardless, I forgive him. And, when he appears at my door, seeking food, I always share what I have. That's turning the cheek, ain't it? And, FUCK, it's DIFFICULT!
I have overlooked myself in favour of others for far too long, now. Its time for me to look after me. I have felt suicidal for the past 2 years. No kidding. My doc diagnosed me with Bipolar disorder. And, until very recently, I have suffered so from sleep deprivation. I had no idea what a solid 8 hours of sleep felt like ... really. The Seroquel works ~ within 30 minutes of taking it, I am passed out, sleeping. I take care, now. I monitor ~ what surrounds me, what enters me, what passes through me. I avoid the drama of others. I feel easily overwhelmed. I remind myself feelings demand me to feel them, and not fight them. My disappointment at how Martin has turned out has devastated me ... I fantasized about self-harm quite a bit over the past week. My meatspace friends, thankfully, will not leave me to my own devices ... they challenge me to forge ahead. Joy defines pain and pain defines joy.
Only the dead fish always swim with the current.
This means challenging my self to compassionate, encouraging, genuine and hostile-free exchanges. It also means contemplating my reaction to the thoughts, feelings and expressions of others, prior to acting upon them. 
