Amidst the excitement of my last six days on vacation, I realized what today was: the eighth anniversary of my wedding to my future ex-husband.
Actually, that’s a lie; this day has loomed over me for about a month, but I kept pushing it back into my mind, tucked in the corner so I wouldn’t notice. But it was persistent, and kept shouting at me, “Hey! Remember me! March 8th is your anniversary! Oh, wait…you’re not married anymore…”
This day has brought a flood of emotions bearing down on me. Driving for twelve hours from Dallas, Texas back to Nebraska tends to make a person think about things, and while my thoughts ranged from “I NEED to find a gas station to go to the bathroom,” to “jesus christ…my life is not where I thought it would be now.” Not that this is a bad thing by any means. From my earlier posts, I’m sure you, my readers, have gotten some sort of feeling for how I’ve dealt with this impending divorce. Some days, it’s good. I feel like this was the best decision for us. Living with a person to whom you are married and thinking of them as nothing more than another person in the house is the first sign that things were not meant to be. Then, there are days where I would like nothing more than to hop into a time machine, set the dial for two years ago, and fucking FIX our problems.
Despite my best efforts, and his as well (to an extent), this happened for a reason. I hate that cliché saying, because it’s such a…well, cliché, but it’s true. Everything happens for a reason. It’s just up to yourself to take bad experiences, like divorce, untimely deaths, losing a job, etc, and move on. Easier said than done, especially coming from me, the gal who tried to kill herself when Jason first moved out last July. I thought my life was over without him. I did not want to spend one more minute alive knowing he was giving himself to someone else. I didn’t want to live knowing he was holding her, kissing her, telling her how pretty she was…I had my plan, and by golly, I was going to go through with it. I was going to get into my car and drive down a stretch of empty highway and deliberately try to wreck my car. No pills or slitting my wrists, or anything like that. If I was lucky enough, maybe everyone would think it was an accident, and no one would have to live with thinking I did this to end my life.
But thankfully, and sometimes very much annoyingly, my family and friends caught on to me, and helped me get the help I needed. I spent a few days in the hospital on suicide watch, doped up to the gills on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication, which was a trip and a half, let me tell you. Did you know that in the psychiatric ward of hospitals, there are no plastic bags in the garbage cans? Only paper bags, lest one of us gets the wacky idea of trying to suffocate ourselves. No belts for your pants, either. I digress.
Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is this: while this day is not exactly a happy one for me, I have the capacity of mind to look back with fondness at the years we shared. Yes, it’s terrible things had to end the way they did, and we both made our fair share of mistakes, but like I said earlier–this happened for a reason.
I don’t know what’s in store for me, but whatever does happen, it is supposed to happen.
And keep plastic bags away from me and small children.