Eight Years

I am sitting in my Grandpa's living room. Very likely, at this exact moment eight years ago I was sitting in this same living room. The time between these two moments, well, it hasn't went the way I'd imagined. I didn't have a plan for my life or anything, but I didn't plan this. I didn't plan on being back here as a victim of domestic violence with two children, no job, no car, and an estranged husband. No, this wasn't supposed to be my life. Yet here I am, sitting in between these same wood paneled walls and listening to the same clock tick away each passing second.

I think this is the bottom of the barrel. Rock bottom. Ground zero. At least I hope it is. Because if it is, that means things can only get better from here.

I feel a bit like John Watson from Sherlock. I mean, I've got the PTSD and a slight limp from sleeping on couches for the last month. And I'm starting a blog, although I feel nothing noteworthy ever happens to me. The things that happen to me, I'm sure no one else wants to read about.

But I am certainly not going to start co-habitating flatsharing with Benedict Cumberbatch any time soon.

All the same, these thoughts in my head are things I can't share with my family and friends. Every one of them knows what I "should" do. They all have suggestions about whether I should reconcile or divorce; demand child support or let the courts decide; let him see the kids or deny him until he's met a condition; raise money for a well-known attorney or apply for legal aid and hope for the best; get a job and put the kids in school or get a job overnight or get a job that allows me to bring my kids with me or not get a job and apply for welfare; stay with my Grandpa indefinitely or move out as soon as I can; ect. Everyone has an opinion. They're expecting me to listen. They'll be hurt/insulted/upset/angry if I don't.

Here's the real truth: I have no idea what I'm doing. None. I may act like I've got it together, but I cry myself to sleep thinking about how fallen apart I am.

Maybe getting my thoughts down in a place where I won't have to worry about them being found will help. (And yeah, I know. The internet. But frankly, the internet is safer from my non-internet savvy but very snoopy family members and my daughter who I, for some unknown reason, taught how to read. Paper journals are risky.)