It's Time to Write

Today would have been a full one. Co-op from 8:30 to 3:30, then a mad dash to swim team, and finally home to shower and eat at 6:30. Instead, we slept in. Co-op happened on YouTube and Zoom. I took phone calls and finished menial tasks. We got bad news that everything co-op related is done for the rest of the year. If I was prone to cry, I would have cried.

Around 5, the sun broke through, and we ventured out for a walk. Against all common sense, I let the kids play on the deserted neighborhood playground. Then a few more kids showed up, and again I suspended common sense and let mine stay. We walked further up the street, stopping to talk with neighbors drinking green beer in their driveway. We kept a few feet between us, but certainly not six. I figured out who has toilet paper stockpiled, so I feel much better about that. The kids played with dogs. The adults exhaled. It felt like normal life.

And then, after dinner, Caleb found me at my desk.

“How long is it going to be this way, mom?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Probably a few weeks. Maybe more, but I hope not. Are you sad?”

He nodded.

He misses his friends. He misses swim team. He misses church. He misses Awana. He misses playdates. He misses his life.

“You’ll be a lot more grateful for it when this is over, huh?”

“Yes. A lot.”

I guess that’s an upside. We’ll all be grateful. Ironically, at a time when God was giving me visions of a life of freedom, of community, of relationships…I find myself on total lockdown. The things my husband has denied me…the things I’ve fought for for years now…gone entirely. And now that he’s working from home, the one thing I so desperately want to avoid – time with him – is never-ending. Reserve weekends are cancelled for the next two months. He will be here. All. The. Time. Making us anxious in one way or another.

I have some big questions for God. It’s hard for me to understand why He allowed hope to rise up in my spirit, only to hand me a setback like this. He heard me beg for respite…for time to heal…and instead he handed me more forced time with the bully. It is hard to wrap my mind around. Periodically, I want to throw myself on the floor and have a good old-fashioned tantrum.

I’ve leaned in and asked why. I’ve been directed back to Song of Songs: winter is past. I’ve felt His nudging to accept this Sabbath…to use the extra time to lean into school and projects and rest. Just now, I felt Him say the next season will be busy…so I need to let Him pour into my soul now.

And also, I felt Him say, “It’s time to write.”

Many times in the past year, I’ve stumbled across 1 Chronicles 16:24: “Publish His glorious deeds among the nations. Tell everyone about the amazing things he does.” Well, if I knew how to publish much of anything, I would.

But I don’t. And I’ve told Him that. I’ve also suffered from a crippling case of writer’s block. All the ideas swirling in my head literally shut my brain down. I was lucky to get a few phrases into my notebook. Impossible situations…depression…anxiety…they make it hard to do much of anything except manage them.

And now I have a whole big chunk of time without wake-up calls and taxi runs. (And toilet paper, apparently.) And as I sank into a hot bath the other night, a voice in my head told me it was time.

I still don’t know how to publish anything. But it’s time to write.

That’s all I know. My heart is breaking. I want freedom more than ever before. And it’s time to write.

Then and Now

On a beautiful, cloudless day in September of 2001, life as I knew it collapsed with two towers in New York. I was nearly 23, living in a brand-new apartment with a brand-new roommate, and student teaching for my final semester of school. (Yes, if you’re doing the math, I was doing the 4.5 year college plan. College was not my finest hour.)

One minute, life was beautiful and uncomplicated. Then my cooperating teacher pulled me aside, told me something terrible had happened, and sent me to the counseling office to watch live while she took charge of the eighth graders. It was a gift to me that I didn’t have to see that unfold with an audience of young eyes; I certainly wouldn’t have handled it well.

The following days very much resembled the ones we’re living in now. Crazy rumors led to runs on commodities that we feared would be in short supply. Instead of toilet paper, we lined up for miles to get gas. Gas stations sold out and shut down. We rushed to the grocery for non-perishable food. (In case you’re wondering, my provisions included cases of Dr. Pepper, M&M’s, Lucky Charms, and ramen noodles. Nothing else, really.) We were afraid to go to large, public places for fear that the terrorist next door (they were everywhere, we know) would target them. A rumor flew around that a large-scale attack was planned for malls nationwide. Schools felt vulnerable and many people kept their kids home. We were, quite literally, afraid to breathe, as if the air might be laced with explosives.

My roommate was housesitting for friends, which left me alone in our apartment, sprawled on the couch watching around-the-clock coverage of all the things we thought we knew. (As you can probably imagine, time revealed that much of that early reporting was completely inaccurate, but I didn’t have the perspective to realize it.) I didn’t even have cable, but I did have Dr. Pepper, which I consumed in abundance. The isolation was probably the worst thing that could have happened to me; lacking any good personal habits for dealing with anxiety, I watched, ate, and tried to find anything that would make me feel better.

It turned out that two things were quite helpful in doing just that. The first was shopping. As the fog lifted and things re-opened, the country began to realize that life probably would, actually, continue. The malls, desperate to lure in wary shoppers, offered deep discounts. Apparently, I am willing to risk death by suicide bomber if there’s a chance to score Express jeans for half price. A new wardrobe improved my mood remarkably, so I shopped often, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t getting paid for my student teaching gig. That’s why God invented credit cards, no?

The other opportunity that soothed that fear in my heart was happy hour at the TGI Friday’s right down the street with my new colleagues. Only it wasn’t really an hour – it was more like seven. For someone who’d rarely ever had a drink, that was a lot of alcohol. And all that alcohol masked the fact that my newfound community – which I desperately craved – wasn’t really what I was looking for. They were good people, but not on the path I wanted to be on. Still, it felt good to be with someone – anyone – in those early weeks, so I found a boyfriend in the happy hour crew and let the alcohol fix my misgivings.

Eventually I got rid of the boyfriend, and eventually I paid off the debt. Life went on, and offered me more personal 9/11’s. Each time, I flailed and writhed and grasped for anything to make me feel better. Each time – as it always does – life eventually moved on.

But the last one – just two years ago – finally changed me. That time, when my world bottomed out, I leaned in to God. Instead of binge-watching Friends, I walked the darkened halls of my house, opening my hurting heart to God. (And if you think you can’t be honest with God, I’d suggest reading the book of Psalms. All of it.) I read the actual Bible. Friends – real friends – came alongside me and spoke truth. I found a counselor who was willing to ask the right questions, to look below the surface, to help me see things in myself I didn’t want to see. I begged God to fix things, and instead He opened my eyes. I was begging for a bandaid when I was bleeding out from a full-blown puncture wound. I didn’t know who He was or how He felt about me. The people I was trusting weren’t worthy of my trust. I was trying to earn what was freely given, and letting shame bully me into ignoring the truth.

God began to show me how to come to Him first, how to rest in what He is doing instead of fixing things myself. He began to show me that I can trust him, regardless of what people on earth decide to do. He began to rewrite my response to things that cause me anxiety.

And then last week happened. And this week. Every day, life as we knew it seems more and more impossible. If I let myself linger on social media, the bad news hits in regular waves. Just like 2001, the future we imagined seems gone forever. And just like 2001, my body is riding waves of anxiety. My appetite is gone. I’m tempted to stare at my phone all day. Sometimes my body just shakes. All day long, I just want to sleep. And then at night, sleep eludes me.

I’ve been given the same opportunity I was given almost 20 years ago, but this time I know this is where God is. In the scary and uncertain, He will do things I couldn’t imagine just last week. He will mold more than just our external situation; He will change my heart in these moments.

I still hate it – all this change and uncertainty and, most of all, the isolation. But I also know this is where we find him. If we’re brave, this is where strongholds finally break and victories finally happen. This is where we change. And this time, I’m here for it.

What I Wish You Knew

In my counseling session today, my counselor was asking really tough questions and I honestly felt like she was saying I need to leave, but I don't have enough faith. I don't think that was her intention...she was really pushing me to see the truth, but it left me rattled and a bit frustrated.
Unless you've been in an abusive marriage, particularly as a mostly stay-at-home mom with young children, I suppose it's hard to understand how my brain has to work. But there are some things I wish everyone around me could know and understand.
1. I feel tremendous shame both related to my marriage and my husband's behavior. My mom once asked me why I went to such lengths to hide his behavior from others. Well, for starters, it can't help but reflect back on me because I'm married to him. At some point, dumb and deluded and also under tremendous pressure to "be married", I made that choice. I wish there was a stronger word than regret; if there was, I'd use it. Also, when people witness toxic behavior like my husband's, they tend to withdraw from both the husband and the wife, leaving the wife and kids even more isolated. And finally, when the man is a primary wage earner, outside perception of him can lead to not being able to pay the mortgage...and even more instability. So it's a tenuous balance of surviving life, but also surviving the marriage.
2. I still on some level believe this is all my fault, and it could all be fixed if I was "better." A better what? Wife, mom, wage earner, housekeeper...you name it, I've been shamed for it. Even with many voices speaking otherwise into my life, the sum of my days comes down to doing things that I think will make him happy. The alternative is vicious rage and anger, and no one wants to provoke that. This is tremendously common in emotional abuse; even when the victim has detached from responsibility on an intellectual level, her emotions are still captive.
3. I'm both relieved that other people know, and also anxious. I'm still glad when people at church speak to him and include him, even if they know the whole story. Part of me still hopes that the right people can speak truth into him. I do notice when my friends put their personal feelings aside and include him because, for now, he's still linked with me.
4. My kids both love and hate him. If he vanished from our lives completely, I would feel nothing but relief. But the kids would mourn. They would also be relieved. But either way, my kids lose...and that SUCKS.
5. Everything I do is hard. Making counseling appointments means arranging childcare and also anticipating when he won't be there to interfere. Committing to meetings during hours when he's home means fighting a battle...maybe for days. I almost never go out with friends because he heaps so much guilt on me, and I worry about my kids being alone with him. So if I show up without a hostess gift, I'm sorry. Showing up is all I can do some days. And some days, I can't even do that. Sometimes I stay home because it's too exhausting to worry and fight.
6. I have zero confidence in myself or my decision-making ability. I have been criticized for talking too loud and too quietly. My jokes have been mocked. My intention has been questioned. I am no longer parenting...I am trying to raise kids without making their father mad. When I make a decision that goes against what I know he wants - and I have to do that often - I literally have panic attacks for days. God has been faithful to sustain and protect me when I've stepped out and obeyed him, but I've still been subjected to the angry tirades.
7. The logistics of leaving are astronomical. Where will I live? How will I afford it? How will I afford the move and what will he do if he knows about it beforehand? Will I be able to live in a safe place? Will my family have any privacy? Will a judge believe me when I tell why I left? Will a custody trial protect my kids? What damage will my husband do during the one-year separation period? To my credit? To my reputation? To my life? How do I begin separating finances in a way that protects me? How do I hide money away? What will we do for insurance? Will I always be afraid that he'll come back and find us? In the absence of any clear next steps, I typically retreat back to pretending this will be OK and I can totally survive this until my kids are old enough to refuse to live with him.
8. I have been treated so badly for so long that I have trouble recognizing the difference between healthy and unhealthy behavior. Literally, someone had to tell me that what I was experiencing wasn't normal and I SHOULD be angry before the blinders began to come off.
9. I am angry and kind of bitter. I don't want to be. I'm trying hard to forgive and hand that responsibility off to God, but over time, the rage has definitely built up. So sometimes I find myself being short-tempered and irritable because I'm anxious about what he's going to do...and that shakes my confidence further. Maybe I am an awful person and this is what I deserve.
10. I feel like a burden. Don't assume that no news is good news. In the last week, I've considered sending SOS texts to several people, but held back because I'm sure they're tired of hearing about it and wondering why I don't just DO something. I would if I knew of something I could do.
11. Finding options is basically a full-time job. Calling shelters, talking to lawyers...even counseling takes a heap of time. I have other responsibilities, so I don't know how to speed this up. I don't know where to start.
12. It's super hard to wait on God's guidance...and even more so when everyone else feels like the answer is obvious. Please be patient with me. Rushing into things got me into this mess, and I don't want to make that mistake again.
13. I am tremendously grateful for each and every person who has received my truth without judgement, prayed for me, supported me, and spoken truth over me. So many women in abusive marriages are treated worse by the community around them than they are by their husbands. My people have been...wonderful. There's just only so much other people can do.

Tired

I’m just really tired.

Not physically tired, although that’s a given. I’m mentally tired. It’s hard constantly trying to reign in racing thoughts, intentionally choosing to believe in something you can’t see, and resisting the urge to tangle with a toxic person. God is teaching me to turn my thoughts to Him when James is unstable, but it’s still exhausting to live in a home where you never know what you’re going to get. The kids are on edge and it comes out in aggressive behavior.

The other day, the counselor talked to me about a drawing Caleb did of his house. I was central in the drawing, which tells her that I’m a central part of his home. But I clearly wasn’t happy. And that tells her that, well, I’m not happy often enough that it defines the way he thinks of me.

It’s true, of course. And it leveled me.

My memories of my own childhood after my dad’s job loss are very similar. My mom wasn’t happy. In fact, she was in full-blown depression, which expressed itself in fits of rage and long periods in bed. I was scared about my dad’s job loss and scared by her behavior. I understand as an adult just how bad things were for her, but I’ve also always resented that no one was around to be a parent and shepherd my heart. I had to face that fear and terror on my own, just as I have as an adult.

And yet, here I am becoming the same angry person. I’m angry because the house is messy and I have to prove to James that I’m worth being a stay-at-home mom. I’m mad because the kids are fighting me on schoolwork, and I have to prove that homeschooling produces geniuses. I’m mad because I’m supposed to bring in more money than I am in order to justify my cost. Deep down inside, everything I’m mad about comes down to fear: fear that I’m not worthy or worth it. Fear that I’m screwing everything up. Fear that I’ve already ruined it all.

When you have to prove your value, life is one big panic attack. When you’re always trying to avoid the unavoidable tirade, you can’t ever relax. And when you can’t ever relax and just be yourself, life is unbearable.

But I don’t want my kids to remember me this way. I’m trying so hard to show them a different way to respond to stress, and a different way to respond to toxic people.

I’m just so tired. I don’t know how to keep going.

Running

My last half-marathon was in April. I’d trained with my running partner, paying special attention to the extensive hills in the course. I’d told my husband about the race for several weeks, so he knew he would need to be at home with the kids.

Then, just days before the race, he signed up for his own race…on the same day. I scrambled, but located a sitter. I went to the expo and picked up my gear. I was excited.

The night before, he came home from work in a rage. He was mad at the world, and especially at me. “What right do you think you have to pay money to run in a race? You’re a stay-at-home mom, but you blow money like you earn it. You’re not even fast. What makes you think you deserve this? You’re just an entitled little only-child bitch who thinks she can have whatever she wants.”

The kids ate in silence. To some degree, they see these outbursts so often that they don’t seem affected. The impact comes out in other ways, though. They aren’t unscathed.

And neither was I.

I tried to defend myself, to point out the hypocrisy and blatant untruth of his words, but in the end I just loaded the kids in the car and we drove around while I tried to calm myself.

Something in me had broken. I realize now that he weaponized shame, his favorite barb. He shames me by pretending I don’t earn enough to get the things I need. He shames me by comparing me to my mother and to the endless legion of other women who are wrong by virtue of being female. He shames me with invented stories so realistic that even though I didn’t do those things, I feel guilty anyway. And this time, he shamed me for running. For getting up early, wearing old running gear, and putting on the miles long before anyone got up. For wanting the camaraderie of running with a partner. For enjoying the fun of a race and the joy of a medal.

The next morning, I woke up to a text from the babysitter saying that she had a stomach virus. I was out childcare, and I had to use the childcare onsite. When I got there, I was distinctly anxious. It wasn’t secure and it didn’t feel safe. The shame shouted louder: how dare I think that I should run a race? Now my children were endangered, because of my recklessness.

The shame took root in my lungs, that were already heaving from several days with a bad cough. By the end of the first mile, I knew I was in trouble. We walked over and over again, and even the walking left me exhausted. Normally I can settle into a rhythm after a rough few miles, but it never came. I thought maybe I should take a shuttle back, but I didn’t. I pushed through, ran the last 50 feet with my children (who had been picked up by friends from church so they could watch), and got my medal. But I was defeated. It wasn’t my lungs that broke me. It was my spirit.

I’d been defeated before the race even started. Now that I’ve read up on the way shame causes disintegration in the brain, I understand a little better.

I couldn’t get back into running after that. I did an obstacle course race with friends in June. Again, the husband was opposed, and when I sprained my ankle badly, his comment was that clearly I shouldn’t be signing up for races.

When my ankle healed, nagging hip pain reared its head, and eventually I just quit. I debated seeing a PT for several months, and finally, today, I went.

They still don’t know what’s causing the hip pain, but the PT told me to go out and run in an attempt to trigger the injury and get a better description. Tonight, after I put Violet in bed, I pulled on my compression socks and went out for a jog.

It was good running weather. The air was cool. For the first time in over six months, I ran the whole Wedge hill without stopping. Actually, I ran the whole thing without stopping. I talked to God while I ran, asking him to replace James’ voice with His voice. Asking Him if He wanted me running, and what I should do to keep doing it. I thanked God for a body that moves. I kept going.

Running never feels “good” to me, but this did. My hip is sore, but we can’t fix it if we don’t know the source. I’m trying to reclaim something that was stolen from me that April night. When I came home and my husband commented, “Wow, that was fast,” I only cared a little.

He doesn’t care about me. Why do I give his voice so much credit?
I'm taking back more than running.
I've started reading again, even though he perceives it as lazy and selfish of me.
I sent out Christmas cards this year, for the first time in five years.
The kids and I helped a friend out with Christmas.
I am making Christmas cookies with the kids, even though the food nazi believes all sugar is sinful.
I am going to early morning Body Pump classes because my body feels good when I do.
Once a week, I have a glass or two of wine.
I drink coffee in the morning.
I am letting the kids watch all the Star Wars movies in order, and if their dad won't take them (because Star Wars is on his crap list now), then I'll take them to the new one.
I am going to go all in for Christmas, even though he hates every part of it.
He does not get to suck the joy out of everything any longer.
Every act of joy and care is a tiny rebellion against a reign of terror. I'm not bowing down to my husband anymore. I serve a God who gives joy. He gives good gifts.
I'm praying one of those good gifts is a permanent way out for the kids and I. We've learned so much in the past two years; now it's time to heal.

Where I Stand

A quick update:

After a few good weeks at work where James was hitting numbers and having success, they changed the call metrics and it’s gotten hard again. I have no idea if they did it on purpose because he’s difficult or if this is just how they operate. What I do know is that we’re back to several hours of ranting about how the world is out to get him. Every night. We literally hold our collective breath when the garage door opens, and duck behind walls while we try to gauge what is coming through the door.

He’s also turned absolutely surly. I finally got my wedding ring back on after months of eczema, but he quit wearing his. He can’t be in the room with me for five minutes without a nasty, mean-spiriting, usually false barb. I feel like I’m alone on a field with arrows coming from every direction…and no shield.

I finally snapped the other night and pointed out that he has had the same problems with every job he’s ever had. I asked if there was, possibly, a job that he would NOT complain about, because I don’t think it exists. His problems are an aversion to hard work and authority, and profound selfishness. He wants to lie around on the couch and watch You Tube and play the kids’ video games. In his underwear. Because this is what he does on the rare occasion that he’s home with the kids, this is what he assumes I must do all day. And because he can’t see anything that doesn’t agree with his worldview, he hates me for the hypothetical life he believes I must be living.

Today he told Violet she was the only thing that makes him happy…after nearly making her cry because he mocked her joke. (Her jokes are terrible…but she’s FIVE.) Now, no one is responsible for another person’s happiness, and a five-year-old certainly doesn’t need to pick up that burden for an adult. Then he said Caleb makes him happy sometimes, and Eli makes him happy occasionally. Did I mention that Eli tells the counselor his dad hates him? That could be why.

I am not the fantasy woman that he has created in his mind, so I will never make him happy, although that didn’t keep me from trying for a long time. I think he realizes that he’s made a critical error and pretty much lost me, so he’s going to reject me with as much force as possible.

I’m surprised by how much it still hurts.

The thing is, if he’d just be honest and make an effort, I’d give him another chance. But he probably never will. The situation is impossible, and I’ll put it out here so that when God works a miracle, I can remember just how miraculous it is:

My husband is chronically un- or underemployed. He cannot hold a job for any amount of time. He’s planning to quit this one in two weeks.

He has a significant mental illness that is clearly spiraling. I don’t feel safe leaving the kids with him. I know his behavior is taking a terrible toll just by being present.

He won’t leave.

He won’t help with the kids or the house, but I know he’ll fight me tooth and nail for custody because that’s how he can hurt me.

I can’t fathom leaving them overnight with a man who has never, ever gotten up with a kid at night. He flat out refuses, often with a lot of cussing.

I’ve been told by two lawyers that the family court system feels a really bad parent is better than no parent, and they’ll award split custody regardless of evidence of emotional and verbal abuse. Even with counselor testimonies.

At this point, I’m convinced he’s capable of anything, and I’m terrified that I’ll get my kids back from a parent visit in a body bag. I’ve decided if that’s going to happen, I’m going to be in a body bag, too. So I have to stay.

He continues to spiral into a hell of his own choosing. He wants people to validate his own tremendous selfishness. No one will. So he gets angrier and angrier.

We live in constant anxiety. My left eyelid twitches almost all the time. My skin itches. I’m gaining belly fat in spite of eating less and working out. I suspect this is all stress-related.  My hairline is getting thin. Stress causes hair loss, too.

God has given me good, well-paying work to do, but we can’t live off it. I am constantly torn between paying work and being with the kids, which is the most important thing I can do.

And yet, the kids are learning. They’re asking big questions about God and relationships. They’re making progress in everything they do. If I look back over the past two years, I’ve grown tremendously in my faith. God has retrained some old instincts and I’m slowly learning to respond by running to God first…instead of freaking out. God has provided financially in spite of my husband’s work ethic. I am learning who God says I am and my heart is being changed.

But I also don’t know if I’ll live through another month of this. I’ve been broken again and again and it hurts too much to even dream. Hope is an extravagance I can’t spare, but it just won’t go away.

So there it is. I don’t know what the answer is. I keep asking God if there’s something I’m missing. If I’m guilty of putting his power in a box. If I’m somehow sinning and blocking what He wants to do in my life.

I don’t know. And I just want to go to sleep.

Grieving

So I just popped onto Facebook, in the spirit of procrastinating.

I’m good at that.

I discovered a post from another colleague from my master’s degree program, a colleague who has already published a darn good fiction book. He was promoting the release of a book by a different author. I glanced at her name, the details he provided, and quickly suspected it was another student from that same program. A quick search on Amazon confirmed: North side of Chicago, the beautiful girl with the amazing proposal story and equally amazing ring, the one who came from money, who bought her own condo on a teacher’s salary when I was struggling to pay rent, the one with the custom-made purse from a boutique in Chicago that I was, admittedly, jealous of for YEARS. Yes, that one.

Jealousy sucks, friends.

It might be more than jealousy in my case. Yes, it’s hard for me to understand why she was earmarked to enjoy the same things I do, but who was also given the bank account to do it. Why she was devoted to have a good time and got to continue doing so, while I devoted years to service and got to be someone’s slave. Why do I have these desires, if they’ll never be realized?

That just sounds frivolous and materialistic, but there’s another layer in my heart. Why did she get earmarked for good love, for a community that cares for her, and I apparently get decades of abuse? Why does she get to realize her dream, while I’m here trapped by a family court system without a heart or a brain and years of wasted potential?

I was right there with her…my writing was lauded and encouraged in the program. Why do I get to be the failure?

And then, I peel back another layer of the onion. At the core, I’m really mourning the loss of my youth. Of the good years of my life, of the potential…of joy. Truly admitting what is happening in my marriage means accepting tremendous loss. Tremendous waste. Almost 15 year now…in the dumpster.

Where would I be if my spouse encouraged me instead of mocking me? Where would I be if I had a partner in parenting? Where would I be if someone spoke God’s love into my life, instead of hurt?

Was there a way to learn what I know about God without the pain of the last fourteen years? Maybe not.

But if so, why was I earmarked to be unloved, unseen, and unremarkable? Why was my potential wasted and hers was fulfilled?

Of course, midway down this incredibly unproductive road, something stops me. When you live with a narcissist, even self-pity is difficult. It’s the cornerstone of the narc’s very existence, and one of my great fears is adopting the traits I despise in him.

But still, at the end of the day, I’m grieving. I’m grieving the experience of having real, good love. If I ever manage to extricate myself from this, I realize the likelihood of dying single is quite high. I have to be OK with that.

I’m grieving the girl I was, and the youth I wasted on a man who couldn’t even appreciate what he was given.

I’m grieving the chance the grow old with someone who looks over and still sees the girl I once was, wrinkles and grey hair and all.

I’m grieving the family I wanted to build, and the life I hoped for. I’m grieving the freedom I handed over for a diamond ring.

I’m grieving the childhood I hoped my children would have, and their chances of growing up healthy and whole. I’m grieving the life I might have had, if I’d made better choices.

It’s a lot of loss for one person to process, and I’m not there yet.

In this month of Thanksgiving, I should write a companion blog post about how God has been faithful in spite of the crap. About how I’ve had breakthroughs in the past two years that I never thought possible. About the growth that’s occurred. About how I’ve changed.

But right now, I just want to grieve. Is that OK?