It's like some sort of stupid human trick, rattling off people's driver license numbers after glancing at their ID an hour earlier. And it was a skill that was extremely helpful when I was a history major at the U of A, basically living on the fourth floor of Old Main for three years.
A year ago today, my husband came to me and said he wanted a divorce. That there wasn't anything I could do, and while he might attend a counseling session, it would be futile.
And he was right. He hadn't been happy in years, maybe ever. And in turn, I had been so painfully sad because I was never what he wanted or needed. There were parts of myself that I repressed, trying to be the person that would make him want me.
He wasn't a bad husband. And I wasn't a bad wife. But we had no business getting married.
I had so much shame in the beginning. Shame about getting divorced. For failing. For wasting my parents' money on a ceremony that was full of empty promises. For being blind. For trusting someone that I no longer knew.
And while it's been hard, I'm grateful for the divorce.
So much has changed in a year. I've changed. My hair is short. My lips are red. I'm slowly learning that I'm not hideous, that this body can be considered beautiful and is capable of incredible things. I'm being fairly mindful of how I treat my body not because I want to make someone happy, but because I want to make myself happy. I'm in the process of being kinder to myself. My zip code is different. So is my bank account. I've written more in the past year, things that I'm proud of. My friends like me because I'm me, not because I'm attached to someone. I'm finally standing up for myself after being a doormat for so long.
It's been a hard year. But I'm hopeful for the future. My future. And the boys.
And for that, I'm glad.