I only judge myself, I am not judging you

“My Love Hate Relationship with My Body” series Part 1 and Part 2

I have written about my body image and my fucked up view of my weight.  I want to make some things very clear.  When I stood on that scale and it said 160, to me I was fat.  Very fat.  Horribly unhappily fat.  I want it very clear that the only person I judge is me.  If you weigh 160 I do not in any way think you’re fat.  Miss Banshee, in her Weight of the World post, put it perfectly when she said “To me, everyone else, EVERYONE else looks…right. The way they’re supposed to. Whatever weight they are. Perfectly normal and fine. Everyone but the image in the mirror. That one’s a freak”

Body dysmorphic disorder. My sister has admitted to having serious body image issues to some degree.  I will admit to having this same disorder to the Nth degree.  I don’t know where either of us get it.  (In an email to me, when I asked her this question, she is able to explain to me exactly why she feels this way.  I wish I was so self aware and insightful.) I don’t remember specific incidents that would have cause it. I remember, when I was a teen, wearing the latest fashion, which was short shorts (like up to my hoo-ha short) and half shirts.  Bare mid-drifts were the fashion in the 80’s.  (thanks Madonna)  And like most teen girls just discovering their sexuality and the power their bodies have over the boys, I dressed to show off the most skin.  My Dad didn’t like it.  What father would?  Compound that with the fact that he was a preacher, and had an image to maintain, I was an embarrassment.  I probably should have been embarrassed if I had any common sense.  But even then, the comments he did make were more about the fact that even when I was dressed, I wasn’t really dressed.  It never had to do with my body.

From the day I sat in the bathtub beside my BFTS Debbie, I have hated my thighs.  I haven’t always acted on that hate, but I have always thought my thighs were too big.  Ever since my high school friend commented on my flat stomach, I have been hyper aware of my stomach.  There were many nights I would lay in bed and if my hip bones didn’t protrude above my stomach by 2 inches, I worried.  If my stomach wasn’t hollowed out, I would worry I was getting fat.

My body turned 40 a couple of years ago.  And with that momentous birthday came a changing of the guard.  The weight that was all too easy to pack on thanks to cheesecake, margaritas, and pasta three nights a week, now stubbornly clings and refuses to budge or leave.  That’s not true.  The first 30 fell away pretty easily once I eliminated the cheesecake, the artery clogging Sunday morning brunches, Saturday afternoon lunches at Applebee’s, and the weekends full of margaritas or rum and coke.  Add to that the stress of the break-up, and it’s surprising 30 pounds is all I lost.  It should have been more.

But here I am, still not happy with the image in the mirror. Summer is right outside my door, and right now none of my shorts or skirts fit. But, I am determined I will not spend this summer in jeans and a frumpy old woman’s swimsuit.  This time? I’m going to do something about it.  The right way.

My love hate relationship with my body Part II

For Part I of this series, go here.

After my first baby, the rules of my control game changed. It was no longer about controlling what I did or didn’t eat.  It was all of a sudden all about getting back into my own damn clothes and the numbers on the scale.  My son was born in October.  By Thanksgiving I was back in my own jeans (size 8 ) and by Christmas I was back in my skinny jeans (size 5).  I was fueled by the envy of everyone around me who was amazed at how quickly I had gotten back to my pre-baby self.  I lived on the attention.

I spent the next 13 years playing this game.  My weight fluctuated between 115 and 120. I was still just as obsessed with the numbers on the scale and the numbers on the labels of my jeans.  And yet, every time I got pregnant, the games stopped, but started right back up again, the day I came home from the hospital.

By the third go round (after the birth of Newt) I recognized the pattern. I knew in my head that it was unhealthy, and yet I was helpless to let go of the control, and the attention it garnered from my friends.  It wasn’t long after Newt was born that my marriage to the girls’ dad changed.  To be honest, I always had a difficult time with PPD (thanks BPD) and their dad had his own version of PPD.  The fights were epic and our relationship was out of control.  The one thing I could control? My food intake.  And I controlled it with drill sergeant precision.  The numbers on the scale reflected just how happy or unhappy I was in my relationship.

I wasn’t happy in my marriage.  It wasn’t good.  So I sought my happiness in my weight.  I believed, wrongly, that if I could just get down to 100 pounds life would magically be perfect, fairy tale happy.  I starved myself.  I popped diet pills, I used laxatives.  I stopped just short of throwing up but only because I *hate* with a passion that burns brighter than a thousand suns to throw up.  I had my limits.  They were few, but I had them.

They day before I finally left the girls’ dad, I stepped on the scale and the number that day? 98 pounds.  I am 5’ 7”.  At this point? My size 3 jeans were hanging off of me.  I was wearing sweatshirts because I was always cold. I had no body mass to keep me warm.  That day?  I stood on the scale, saw 98 and just stared.  I had won the game!  I was under 100 pounds for the first time since I started this game all those years ago!  I had reached my ultimate goal.  I was winning.  The competitive voice in my head said “Way to go.. now lets see HOW FAR under 100 you can go!”.  The reasonable voice in my head said “Look you’re unhappy here. This is proof that this relationship will kill you.  Get out.  Save yourself and your kids.”

I listened to reason.

I left.

But the games didn’t stop.

I allowed myself to eat and put on enough weight to get above 100 pounds, but just barely.  I couldn’t give up all that I had gained (or lost as the case may be) but I couldn’t survive weighing less than 100 pounds.  Also?  When everyone you know is expressing grave concern about your weight you kinda can’t ignore it or them.  So you do the bare minimum, whatever it takes to get them to leave you alone, without giving up the game.

That was seven years ago.

Five years ago this August I met Brian.  Four years ago next month, I moved to be closer to him, get away from the girls’ dad, and give the girls (and me) a better life. I was still playing the games.  Food was still the enemy.  Brian’s family? Loved to eat.  They loved to cook, especially his dad.  And they ate real food.  Steaks, shrimp, crab, lobster, pasta, biscuits and gravy.  And drink? Margaritas or rum and coke, Mimosas or Bloody Marys for breakfast.  And the cheesecake.  Oh god the cheesecake.

I played my games for a while, but his family? Made it their mission to put some weight on me.  And when faced with all that food, all that glorious, fabulous food it’s hard to play the game.  Then Brian said “I love you.” and then promised me bling if I just gained some weight, and promised to love me for ever if I would just stop playing the games and get healthy.  And did I mention the cheesecake?

Slowly but surely the food, alcohol, Brian and his family won out over my rules.  I was safe, I was secure, and I was loved.  It was ok to eat.  And I ate.  And slowly, one by one, my outfits stopped fitting.  My jeans got too small, my shirts were too tight, and the numbers on the labels of my clothes got bigger and bigger.  There were days I would stand in the bathroom looking at my reflection crying for all I had lost (or gained…)  Crying because I had never seen myself at a normal healthy weight and I hated this ‘fat’ me.  Crying because I was losing the game I had played most of my life.  It was at these times Brian would tell me “I love you, and I love this, and you look wonderful, and healthy and please stop crying.”  I would tell myself it was enough. I would tell myself it was ok to be ‘fat’ because Brian loved me.

It wasn’t that long ago that I stood on the scale because absolutely nothing fit any more.  None of my clothes fit, I had started buying new clothes, with double digits on the labels.  The number on the scale? 160.  The only other time I had weighed anything close to 160, I was 8 months pregnant with a baby.  This time? There was no baby.  This time? I was fat.  Nobody commented on it. Brian’s family still told me I looked good. Brian still told me he loved me and the extra weight.  But that wasn’t enough. I didn’t love me.  I didn’t love the extra weight.  I had lost.

I knew I had to change things, but I also knew I couldn’t go back to my games again. I couldn’t go back to anorexia and lose the weight that way.  My girls are 11 and 14 now and they watch me.  They pay attention.  They would notice, they would see the games that I played and the dangerous ways I fought to lose the weight I so desperately hated.  I knew I had to change, but when you know there’s a cheesecake in the fridge that his mom bought just because she knew I loved cheesecake, it’s hard to change.

When Brian and I broke up in December, all of a sudden the steaks, and pasta three nights a week went away. Suddenly there was no cheesecake calling my name before I went to bed each night.  Now, there would no longer be biscuits and gravy and bacon and eggs for breakfast every Sunday.  There would no longer be lazy days spent watching television in bed, eating and napping a lazy Sunday away.  And without much effort at all, 30 pounds fell away.

I’m still not happy.  I am happier than I was at 160, but I’m not where I want to be.  I am playing the numbers game, but not obsessively like I did years ago.  Frankly, I like food, and I’m just too lazy to play those stupid games.  This time, I am watching what I eat and not eating nearly as much as I used to.  Just this weekend, since the weather finally warmed up, and we’re only a couple of blocks from the school, the girls and I went to the track and walked around it. That is something I can do every night.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss the game.  There are times I wish I had that kind of self control again, but I know this time? I have eyes on me, I have daughters that I influence and I don’t want them to live the life I lived with anorexia.

Because nothing screams dating expert like a twice divorced recently dumped single mom of two. Clearly.

I happen to be hanging out on Facebook when I saw Melissa say that yes, it was true, You Won’t Go Blind was looking for new writers if anyone was interested to contact her.

I thought it would be fun, so I fired off a message with links to here, and Buy-Her.com and said I was interested in being considered.  You know because nothing screams relationship expert quite as loudly as a twice divorced, recently dumped, now back in the dating world at the ripe age of 40+, mother of two almost teenage daughters.  I know exactly what I’m talking about. Clearly.

When I happened to mention this new adventure to a couple of my co-workers, after they stopped laughing long enough to take a breath, they asked me “So, has this woman ever met you?”   Well, clearly, no.  If she had?  I’d would have never been given this opportunity.

Of course, now, I can go on dates and consider it research.  As one friend pointed out “You can be St. Louis’s version of Carrie Bradshaw.”  Because that’s exactly what St. Louis needs.  Clearly.

In all seriousness, I can bring to the table knowledge about blending families, single parent dating, dating over the age of 40, on line dating (that’s where/how I met Brian, and regardless of where we are now (Splitsville, barely speaking Splitsville) we dated for 4 years) and unblending families.

I don’t have anything posted there yet, but believe me as soon as I do?  You all will be the first to know about it. I would appreciate it if you all would then spread the word and show me some love because I don’t want Melissa to regret giving me this chance.  I think it will be awesome beyond words and I need some support and love.  PLEASE.  We’ll keep the crazy from her until she realizes just how Awesome I am.

Questions of my heart

It’s very hard, when you put so much of your relationship on-line, when it all goes bad, to deal with the break up in the public eye.

I know that I don’t have to put anything on line about the break up.  Except that right after he broke up with me (via text, no less) he changed his relationship status on FB, therefore forcing my hand, and I had to acknowledge it.

And because I love(d) him, I asked that the bashing of him stop.  He (along with his son, our friends, his family) would see all that you wrote to me on my FB wall, in the comments.  And yes, I understand and appreciate your sentiments; I knew it would be better for everyone involved, in real life at least, if the bashing of him didn’t happen in public.

Keeping true to that has, at times, been difficult.

There have been days that I have sat down to write a scathing blog post reciting chapter and verse everything he did that pissed me off.  Maybe not at the time, but now, looking back pissed me off.  Just because being pissed off is much easier.  All those feelings, all that passion I felt for him, doesn’t just go away, doesn’t just turn itself off.  So, instead of channeling that passion into love, it’s easier, safer, and less painful to channel it into anger.

But it’s not fair to him.

Or his son.

Or our friends.

Or his family.

They did nothing wrong, and they don’t deserve to be caught in the cross fire, and don’t need to see this battle waged on the pages of the internet.

Brian wouldn’t wage it online anyway.

He would call me, or text me, or just turn his back and turn off my phone, and go quietly away in the middle of the night.

It’s hard to find other things to write about when your heart wants to pour itself out all over the place all the time.  It’s hard to sit down and write about something, anything else, besides the break up.

There are more than a few people I know, based on our history, think that this is just a phase for him.  That in a few weeks, he’ll miss me, he’ll come around, he’ll want to reconcile.

I’m not so sure.  Some days, I would agree with them. Other days? Not on your life.

Today?

One of those days without hope.

No, that’s not true.  Every day is full of hope.  Just today, there is no hope of any sort of reconciliation.

I’m ok with that.

And see, that’s where I am.

Taking this time (however long, or short) away from him, to figure out where I am, where I want to be, how to get there.

And most importantly, what being “there” (where ever there is) looks and feels like.

Do I want him along for the journey?

Do I want to take him on that journey with me?

Do I dig down deep inside me, in a place I have never found, but I’m sure is there, and find the strength and courage to say “I love you, more than you know, but it’s time we stop hurting each other.”

Or is that taking the easy way out?  Walking away without talking about our problems and trying to find a solution?

Or is this the solution?

Changing Landscapes

Do you remember when this blog was fun?  No?  Some of you might.  Trust me when I say there were times when this blog was fun and not all opinionated and political and mouthy.  Wait, that’s what blogs are supposed to be… mouthy.

This place used to be a lot of things. I place to tell my ex-husbands exactly what I thought of them. (They *are* exes for a reason).  It was a place to shed more than a few tears over a broke heart.  It was a place to put the pieces of that broken heart and shattered dreams back together again.  And maybe it still is that place.  If I ever need it to be that place again.  But right now, I don’t need it to be that sort of place.

I am rebuilding my archives, slowly but surely.  And in doing that I am given the opportunity to go back and re-read everything I’ve ever written here.  When I read some of that crap (and oh god, it is crap) I cringe.  I wince.  And I fight the urge to rewrite it, better than it was, or just eliminate it altogether.  But doing that is not being true to myself.  At least not being true to the me back then.  The me then that has become the me now.

It’s also a chance to look back at where I was, where I’ve been and see how far I’ve come.  It’s a chance for me to look at my life and go “Yup, you fucked that one up pretty royally, didn’t ya?”  and then “But look, you came through it.  Now, don’t do that bullshit again”.

Lately this place hasn’t been about me personally.  It’s been about my perception of my place in this world.  My opinion of my world around me.  That’s a huge step for me.  Putting voice to my own opinions and putting it out there for the world at large to see and hear.  I used to just go with the crowd because I was afraid of losing readers, or offending people.  Turns out that’s just giving people the power to determine who and what I am.  Nobody gets to do that but me.

I’m stretching my wings, I’m warming up my voice.  I’m trying to figure out exactly who I am and where I belong in this world.  I honestly hope it will be fun and entertaining in the process.  I hope you’ll join me on this journey I call my life.

Do you want to be the pot or the kettle today? Either way I'm feeling stabby

Just because I feel the need to write, and I’m in a stabby mood, I’m going to stir up some shit.  Yanno, because nothing makes better blog fodder than some good old fashion drama.  That and I am really stabby today.  Did I mention that?  Yeah, well, it bares repeating.

My Missing Piece post stirred up some shit and well I want to reply to that shit.   Now, I’m taking a wild stab at this (helpful to feel stabby.) but I’m thinking this post on the ex husband’s facebook wall, was pretty much meant for me.  Although I never said he was boring, in so many words.  I have a whole lot of other words for him, boring doesn’t even come close.

This message is for you. Yes YOU. You know who you are. GET OVER YOURSELF! You’re nowhere near as important to me as you think you are. OH! And if being boring means my children never have to see me handcuffed and taken away in a police car or spend time behind bars or even to check that little box under “do you have… a criminal record”…I’m happy being the most boring man on earth.

Get over myself.  Oh, please, do you want to be the kettle or the pot today?  I don’t think I’m important, I know I am because you continue to feel the need to keep track of me.  This whole response is proof of that.  You read my blog and felt compelled to respond.  If I didn’t matter, you A) wouldn’t be anywhere near my blog and B) wouldn’t waste your time trying cut me down.  I’m responding because I feel stabby today (that means I”m in a pissy mood, not that I’m actually going to stab anyone.  Thought I’d clear that up for you.) Oh and to prove my point.  I do matter to you, I am as important to you as you want to deny I am.  If I wasn’t you wouldn’t have a clue what I’m writing on my blog.  HA!

Your children?  You have one child.  And he’s my child too no matter how long and how hard you try to convince him otherwise, you can’t change that. OH and you’re future ex-wife needs to know she’s not his mom and the fact that he may or may not call her mom on purpose or accident doesn’t change biology or the fact that I am his mother and he loves me. So give up on that little pipe dream.  You can’t change it just like I can’t change his father.

My children have not seen me handcuffed and taken away.  You know so little about actual facts.  If it doesn’t fit your version of the truth you ignore it and run with what you *wish* was true because it makes you feel superior to me.  You’re not.  Again, do you want to be the pot or the kettle?

I don’t know of anyone who asks “Do you have a criminal record.”  Oh and let’s see, everyone who has ever paid a speeding ticket has been convicted, everyone who has agreed to a restraining order has been convicted, and therefore they have a criminal record.  I’ve never been convicted of a felony, just traffic violations.  So, in your pathetic attempt to make me sound like a criminal, well, it’s truly not as heinous as you want it to be.

So, get your facts right.  Might want to introduce yourself to the truth and might want to stick with it,even if it makes me less horrible than you wish like fuck I was, just to serve your purpose and prove your point.  You’re point which doesn’t happen to be based on fact.

*Whew*  I feel much better now.  Let’s see who fires the next shot.

Putting them first, not in the middle

I had an interesting conversation with Bat Mom the other night. I looked at her and told her “Loving him is not easy. But it’s worth it, isn’t it?” She agreed it is not easy, she could not tell me if it was worth it.

“One of the biggest problems I have with you is you allow yourself to be drawn in to these constant Jr high stupid fights with Slug. I expect you to understand that it’s not about you or him, or her, or us. It’s about the girls.”

That stuck with me.

I used to be in a really good place. I used to sit in the peaceful garden of complete indifference. What he said didn’t matter. What he thought didn’t matter. What he did was unimportant. He just didn’t matter at all in my life. I felt nothing for him. Nothing at all. Complete indifference.

Lately, I’ve been reacting to stupid shit. Lately I’ve jumped at every single piece of bait he has dangled in front of me. I’ve felt this need to not only prove myself to be right and better and smarter but to prove him wrong and stupid and insignificant. I have felt the need to run him into the ground and put him down all in an effort to raise myself up.

The fights are stupid, over stupid things. When he calls yelling and screaming and accusing me of things I didn’t do I should remember to just ignore it. At that point there is no reasoning with him. It’s not about being right. It’s about yelling and screaming and threatening me.

Later when I talked to Future Mrs. Slug, I allowed my anger at his rage at me to spill over and again I tried to get the upper hand and the last word. I slipped. I gave in to the anger I still felt at him.

The problem with these stupid fights is, I can never win. No one can. OH He thinks he wins, but really what has he won? He’s yelled and screamed and before it’s all said and done, he’s drug the girls into it as well. And they are the biggest losers in all of this.

Even now, I just deleted two paragraphs because I wanted to rehash the argument here, and have my say, and prove that I was right once again. This isn’t about who was right. This is about setting aside stupid resentments and anger over imagined sins and doing what is right for the girls.

What is right for the girls? In a perfect world they would have their intact family, but they don’t. They can’t. Second best to that? Homes where their parents don’t fight. Homes where their parents understand that their differences are unimportant. Homes where their parents understand that I can’t change him, he can’t change me, so in the best interest of the girls, accept that and let it go.

When was the last time the girls came first? When was the last time either of us considered the girls feelings or needs or well being? I can tell you that I have made some serious changes in my life along those lines. I have worked with my boss and worked out a schedule that allows me to be home with the girls every morning until they get on the bus for school, and to be home within the hour after they get home from school. I don’t work any of the weekends I have them and I am off at least one day during the week to be with them. I will be able to participate in school parties and classroom activities and field trips. I am reaching out and talking to other mothers of other students in their classes and getting to know them as well.

I have spent time this summer making friends with several people in the neighborhood who are keeping an eye on the house and the girls. I have made friends with several people in town who will allow the girls to stay with them on days the girls don’t have school or are let out early.

Yes, we spent a lot of time with Batman at his house towards the end of the summer, but we have other friends too. I have told the girls that on weekends they are here, they can have their best girl friends over for the day and maybe even for sleep overs.

I want them to have normal childhoods. I want them to have friendships that last years. I want them to have happy memories of fun and laughter and a mom who knows what it’s like to be a girl. I want them to know that they matter to me. I want them to know that I have gone out of my way to be here with them as much as I can, while still putting a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Sure that means they won’t have 3 pair of Nike shoes, or LEI jeans or whatever. Ask them. I’m sure they will tell you that they would rather have days with me than Nikes in their closet (at least for a couple more years.. I hope).

I’ve decided to put my girls first. I’ve decided “Screw him. Let him rant and rage. Let him think I’m a bitch. Let him try and tell me how to raise my girls. Let him threaten to destroy me because I don’t quiver in fear at the sound of his voice. I don’t care. He can call a gazillion times a day. I can ignore him. I won’t allow him to interfere with my time with my girls.

My girls come first. And if I don’t fight with him, they can’t be put in the middle. And that’s the best thing in the world for them.

Cleaning out the junk in my head

I know I’ve been quiet the past few days.  Ok, the past week.  I guess Ron White was right when he said “Diamonds. That’ll shut her up!”

The truth is, while the diamonds really did blow me away and I am awed by them and by the man who gave them to me, I really have had a lot going on in my brain and I just haven’t been able to sort it all out.

I’ve been having an internal fight, argument, feud, battle over a blog post.  There is something that I am aware of, and I’ve been back and forth completely undecided if I should write about it or just let it go.  So I’ve settled for this…

You come here to my blog every day, reading about my life.  Digging through the archives, hoping to find out everything you can about me.  You didn’t think I knew, but I do.  I don’t see the point to your obsession but really, if I didn’t want people to know I wouldn’t put it on the Internet for them to read.  I know you’re here, and now you know I know.  Why not step up and leave a comment, start a dialogue, at least get to know the person you’re reading about.

An honest, heartfelt open invitation to learn all you want to know, directly from the source.

This weekend is the Batman Family Reunion.  I want more than anything to be there, because there are a lot of members of that family I genuinely love and truly like to be with.  There are a few I could do without.  There will be plenty to drink, because really what family reunion is complete without drinks?  And we know what happens when the water turns to wine. Based on things in the past, Batman said it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to be there.  I want sooo much to believe he said that to protect me, and spare me from the drama that we both know will ensue.  It felt like a slap in the face.  I am sure he didn’t mean it, but it doesn’t make it sting any less.

Just when I was getting the pity party for one almost into full swing, I was given a bit of news I am not at liberty to share, but fuck it sure puts everything into perspective. While I was winding up a really good pout and whine, this just took the wind right out of my poor-pitiful-me sails.

I’ve read a few blogs this week talking about alpha bloggers.  I happen to catch a talk show on XM radio this week, talking to ‘popular bloggers’  and how they got their start in blogging and how they have managed to turn their blogs into a business.

I have a mental illness, I am not crazy enough to think I could ever be one of those bloggers, but I do aspire to maybe have triple digit traffic, and maybe double digit comments on a steady and consistent basis.  Of course in order to get more traffic and comments, I really need to write stuff worth reading and commenting on.  I have wanted to improve the writing on here for a while, and with my Jail Chronicles I did.  But as much as I covet more attention blog traffic, I do have my limits as to what I will do for good blog fodder.

Oh and one more thing.. Thanks again to Dawn, who told me about Windows Live Writer.  I never knew about this coolio editing gizmo and dang I lurve it

January 8, 2004

It’s to the point where I don’t even want to come home, not that I have a home, but I know going out will only cause trouble. But being in this house is so depressing, and being around him is even worse.

He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want anyone else around me. Even now he tries to control me. Of course his life doesn’t change and neither does mine. The problem is, mine is supposed to get better.

Once again he asks me “This marriage is over, isn’t it?” And instead of my standard “I can’t make that decision for you”, I decided to make that decision for myself. “Yes. It is.” I knew at that moment that if I didn’t say Yes, if I didn’t make that decision, he never would.

It would be two weeks later that I was gone. It was as if those three words had set us both free. Me, free to finally find a way to get out, and stop the hurting the anger the pain. But in his mind, it freed him to be meaner, and vindictive, and abusive to me, because he had nothing to lose. He had lost it all. At this point he was taking my journals every single morning after I left for work, and reading everything I wrote. I knew it, so I wrote in them, “I know he gets in here and reads this. That’s fine, he can read whatever he wants. When it comes to him and our marriage, everything is in here. When it comes to my life, I don’t even put the important things in here. He’ll never find the truth from me.” He had accused me of cheating on him virtually with every man I talked to. So whether I did or didn’t would never be in those journals.

I spent the majority of 2003 writing “I hate him” on page after page after page of my journals. I had a whole laundry list of reasons why, pick one, or two or ten, didn’t matter. One was as good as the next and probably just as true. It took me a year to figure out that if this marriage was over, the only way to stop the pain was for someone to leave. It took me a while longer to realize that that someone was going to have to be me. It took me a little while after that to finally get the courage to leave. It has taken him almost 8 years to come to terms with the fact that I left him. The divorce is final. I’ve moved over 100 miles away from him. I’m not coming back. He still holds out hope.