Every day is full… and every day has it’s gorgeous blessings and tremendous hards. A friend today reminded me (for probably the 3rd time) that I should write, and write publicly, my truths.

I don’t know where to begin, what to say – I’ve never had a blog – I have actively avoided posting philosophical ramblings about stars aligning to create my beautiful sourdough starter – I do make sourdough bread, but, some of the recipe posts I read … are just a bit much.

I don’t know how I feel about sharing with the world my life, my pains, my… journeys. My friend says I heal through writing – and I do -but most of my life my writing has been so very, very private. Nothing to be shared. A way to keep track of what is real when your partner, your husband consistently tells you a different version of reality, or even tells you your own thoughts (or what he believes them to be)… journaling was always my quiet, oh.so.quiet. protest against another person’s version of me. of my reality. of my mind. of my person.

It’s late. I’m onto tea – which means sleep soon. My beautiful boys are finally asleep – I am slaying them in a multi-week monopoly game which has become a fantastic way of bonding and getting all the phones and nintendos and headphones put away for a bit.

I walk through our home. It’s a place we sleep in. Hard yet to call it home – we’ve lived here 3 months now, our little place of peace. It’s not beautiful. The boys’ still return to the rich beautiful farcical home I helped build with their father every couple of weeks. He gets 2 days. I get 12. A comment on our judicial system when abuse is evident. ongoing. ever present. haunting.

I built some cabinets from Wayfair. They were on clearance. I’m happy with their quality considering the price. I hear in my head all the things my superficial ex would say about furniture of this quality and price point. Every twist of the screw I hear… what a shitty piece of furniture it is. How dare our home be graced with trash. For him, life must be pure – solid wood, teak, mahogany, perfect and costly – made from scratch without screws, with perfect joinery and perfect stains and finishes.

What shit.

I’m fighting every day to put together bits and pieces… and my new furniture isn’t special, but it’s clean and pure of emotional baggage – no one owns the things I own any more. No one can hurt me because they built me some fancy bookshelf.

Mother’s day was last week – I avoided it. The timing – well – they were with their dad, probably for the best. I can’t remember a mother’s day that didn’t come with a price. Flowers for me… my body for him. Even my own children’s gifts to me would somehow be absconded, made less pure. Mother’s day teas at their schools nearly broke me over the years…holding my head up calm as can be pretending I wasn’t falling apart inside because there was real love and not some fake abomination presented over flowers.

pause.

this wasn’t how I thought my first … mental dump of a blog post would go.

If you haven’t guessed – I am a woman in recovery from an abusive marriage/relationship/life. With two amazing boys. And two dogs. and a cat. and a bowl of fish. and a whole lot of plants. Everything that lived I took with me because he would have killed it if it remained with him.

I have managed a house…on a mortgage that is insane. I won’t say numbers – that might pinpoint my location, but let’s just leave it at my income on two jobs doesn’t quite cover my monthly bills…and I’m dipping constantly into my wee, small, smidgen of a cushion I managed to carve together. My house is 100 years old. It talks. My youngest is scared of the basement…and Oh, how I love him for it. My eldest just wants to bash basketballs and talk about “bulking up” and gaining muscle… I believe it’s a response to his father…

In this blog – gosh – purpose…. do I have one? I think… I’ve been on this journey now for a few years. It’s been 2 years now since I separated – and only 3 months since I finally gained a safe home that’s my own.

I guess the purpose here is to share – what it is to be a woman of faith, to find faith in the midst of an emotionally abusive, controlling and manipulative relationship. To share how I feel…hiding myself and my face after the things my ex has done to me; to find more women.

I was a gymnast as a youth – for all my 5’1″ – I’m stronger than most women in most ways. I credit my mother – the strongest woman I have ever known – for that. And I believe God made me strong for a reason… and maybe that reason is so that other women can find their footing and know they’re not alone.

You. You are not alone. You are Loved. You are wanted. I believe in you. I didn’t believe in myself, and yet, here I am. Still afraid, always, but independent and trying to raise my boys to be good men. So – I’ll try to share my journey.

Please forgive my anonymity. Between the court system and an antagonistic ex, I have to hide my face and identity. But, I am me, and maybe through my stories and poetry and baking and faith, you might come to believe you have that same strength too.

Love to you all. If you are like me, take heart, for you are not alone.