I’ve seen what tired looks like on a divorced woman.
It hangs in front of her like a carrot she never can reach again.
I knew of others who suffered this affliction.
They bathed in it much too long, and I never bothered to ask the important question.
How do you get rid of it? Maybe, you don’t. Maybe, you can’t.
Maybe, you should try harder. Maybe, you shouldn’t.
When I came home that Wednesday night, there was a note.
Yes, it was the night he left me after fifteen years together.
Five words: I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!
Did I mention, he put an exclamation point.
It was, at this point, I lost my appetite. I became a closet Debbie Downer.
A few times I thought death was the best option, but it passed quickly.
I wasn’t that kind of woman, but when the waves in my life tank became too big,
and the bottom no longer there, it was tempting.
I managed to grab something, only for it to slip out of my hand, and drift away.
Sometimes the loss was unbearable and was forced to close my eyes.
He was the one person I thought would never leave me.
It became the longest year of my life. It isn’t easy to breath when you’re not in control.
I no longer had his arms comforting me.
I longed for his touch. I longed for his smell. I longed for his words.
I also longed to slap his face for his inability to be truthful.
A few months had passed when I recognized something.
It was no longer our bedroom. It was my bedroom.
This was my carpet digging into my legs. This was my wall touching my back.
I could paint over the ugliness on the walls.
Nothing was ours anymore. Nothing was his anymore.
He didn’t want the house. His input no longer matters.
I should’ve known better. Our separation was a bad dream.
Our divorce is going to be a good dream.
I loved him once, and he loved me too.
I have no idea where he is living or if he has another woman.
Too much time has passed, and I have since painted the walls again.
My five words: I AM BETTER WITHOUT YOU.