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The Choice

We sat alone in the bedroom on that fated early evening four years ago.

It was the day after I’d seen the message come through on his cellphone: “I want to be with you.” That was the day that everything fell into place for me, the day the lights came on.

He’d been talking about moving out, about us being formally separated, so I knew that’s what he wanted and I gave him a choice. He either stayed to try to work things out or he left, and our 15 years together would be over. Forever.

He chose to leave.

I didn’t want to spend another night under the same roof as someone merely pretending to be my husband and I asked him to pack and go immediately.

I was plunged into sudden, terrifying darkness and for nearly 3 years I lived in the miserable pit of depression, barely able to function. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. I could just about breathe and make it through from one minute to the next.

When my therapist told me: “There’s life after divorce, you know”, I wanted to spit in her face. I was alone in my despair, angry with him, angry with HER, angry with myself, angry for my children and oh so tired.

I listened to the lies being told; I endured the condemnation from his family. I had no energy to vindicate myself. I didn’t see the point.

It’s taken every ounce of courage and strength I didn’t know I possessed to dig myself out of that hell hole, to start claiming back my life and regain my power. It’s taken four long years to piece myself back together and find peace and contentment, but I’ve done it.

We sat alone in the bedroom on that fated early evening four years ago.

Today, I choose to celebrate my freedom.