February 1st last year was on Monday. Will and I had gone to court the Thursday before, and I had told the judge I agreed that he could see the boys. That first weekend, he wouldn’t take them because he hadn’t received his paperwork and was afraid that I would call the law on him after he picked up the boys.
His thinking didn’t make any sense to me, but whatever. I was left to tell the boys that they wouldn’t see their father that weekend because of paperwork.
Life was hell for me at that time. I was scared that Will would come back. I bought pepper spray and changed all the locks on the house. I didn’t know what he was capable of doing. He told me that I betrayed him – the worst offense he could imagine.
Let’s think about that for a moment. I betrayed him.
In therapy three days before he put his hands on me, I’d flat out told him that if it happened again, I would press charges. Seemed pretty clear to me when I said it. There must have been a gap in our communication.
Nevertheless, this time last year I was in deep mourning. I cried almost always. The boys probably thought I was losing it. I thought I was going to die. I didn’t see a future to be happy about.
Now, a year later, I am feeling residual effects of that week. I am anxious and nervous. I am tearful and scared. But I know why.
It will pass, but I hope you’ll say a little prayer for me. I’ve got things to do, and I’m not about to let these anniversary anxieties overcome me. But it’s hard. Like last year, I’ll post a little here and there to remind myself that I am going to be all right.