Avoiding. Moping. Crying. Reconsidering everything that has led me to this moment. For two days, almost three days, my cheeks have hardly been dry.

I spoke with my parents about moving back in with them temporarily while I get back on my feet.

How. Utterly. Humiliating.

At thirty-five, I’m going through a divorce and can’t stand own my own two feet. To be fair, I *could* try to make something else work but I’m not really sure Aidy Bryant has time to play me in a Lifetime movie anytime soon so better stay off the FB roommate sites.

With moving home, it means leaving a house that I tried desperately to turn into a home. It means losing independence. It means not being able to freely go to my favorite nail salon, and being further away from my spa, and where I float, and my favorite pizza place, and where I like to get my Chinese from.

But, most importantly, it means leaving my dogs behind. I’ve curled up and snuggled/cried into/tried to come up with an alternate plan for days and I keep coming back to the same realization: nothing will work.

I told myself a long time ago when I was brave enough to leave, it meant zero contact. When the divorce is finalized, I’ll get a new email, a new cell number, a new everything. Socials will be blocked. I constantly get drawn back in to a man who has done nothing but cheated and lied and perfected gaslighting and manipulation the past ten years. TEN. YEARS. It’s more recently gotten more abusive, so I gotta get out soon.

Today, my best friend’s middle daughter turned seven. Her three babies have my entire heart, but Sue is the most special. To the outside world, she’s the middle child, and has a round face, and maybe needs a little extra lovin, so it’s natural for her to be my girl, but the truest reason is she reminds me of what wasn’t good timing for whatever reason I’m still trying to figure out. In 2017, when I had my second miscarriage, Karen was pregnant with Sarah. I remember being so elated for Karen while desperately searching for the reason why my baby was being rocked by Jesus and not their Mama. I was 11 weeks and had no idea I was pregnant when I found out I was losing it. I still remember that awful day like it was yesterday.

When Sue was born, I cried the first time I held her. She was such a sweet potato and I knew I’d be celebrating her milestones in a way that nobody else would understand. I’m so thankful Karen lets me love her babies the way I do. Seven is hitting me hard. It’s the age I really remember starting to have a bit of a bond with my mom. She would let me help with things around the house. I was interested in baking and cross-stitch. We read a lot of books together.

I’ve been thinking about my sweet angel a lot during this time in my life – would my marriage been different if we were parents? Would I have been able to tough out more than I did? Would priorities have shifted and B not cheat on me anymore? Would we have more than one by now? All the what ifs and unknowns are bubbling and overwhelming.

To relax, I do sensory deprivation floating but it didn’t help today; my mind has been jumbled in a way nothing is helping. I haven’t slept in three nights.

I think I have a lot to talk about in therapy this week.