Today I packed the last of my things from
our his bedroom.
Only 6 more rooms to go before I move next week.
I went through all the cards I’ve saved over the years. All those words and promises that seem so completely fake now. “Always and forever” doesn’t taste so sweet when you’re emptying your bedroom cabinet. I went through all my jewellery that was scattered everywhere – all the bracelets he bought me from the tiny shop in his university town, the necklace his mother bought me for my 18th, the annual gifts from her thereafter. I tracked our history back through my underwear drawers – I pinpointed where in the last 7 years I stopped feeling attractive to him, where the loathing of my body overtook any desire to hold him, or maybe where the abuse became a constant presence so I felt more like a child than an adult. I pulled dress after dress off the hanging rail, remembering where I last wore them – my prom dress, where he lifted me above his head and my dress covered him and me in silk and petticoats as we danced, the dress I wore to that wedding when he promised me the vows were how he felt, the last dress he unzipped me from and let it fall to the ground, other thoughts our priority.
I either binned it, put it in a bag for the charity shop, or put it in the suitcase. And then I hoovered, and then I cried. And cried. And cried some more.
I can’t shake this sadness tonight. I’m switching and desperate and so, so sad. I can’t see a way forward from the life we created, all I can do is destroy myself over what I destroyed, the love we had that I ruined.
In one of my cards to him, I wrote a quote that we have on our living room wall, “remember, love makes things possible, not easy.” I am so cross with him for giving up because things got a bit tricky. But then I am so grateful to him for giving me freedom back to my life.
And I’m wondering how on earth I can be both.