One year ago today was the first day I lived on my own. I moved out of the house I shared with my ex and into the apartment I call home now. I almost typed "my house," but it never really was my house or my home - even after the years of marriage. Because of that and many other reasons, I've never looked back.
It does amaze me that I survived the move. I know lots of women go through worse, but it was definitely bad for me. I had no idea how my ex would react - whether he would ignore me, yell and scream, burn my stuff or kill me.
After a few therapy sessions, I was ready. So I slipped my most precious belongings out and put them in storage, made the moving arrangements, found an apartment, and then told him.
It happened fast. For weeks I would have rather move out than eat or breathe. I had to remind myself to do both. My family nor my clients had any clue what was going on. Even though a few friends knew, it wasn't worth the risk for them to help, so I packed by myself. Well, my ex helped a little. He packed up my CDs and DVDs. I'm sure he wanted to make certain I did't take any of his sacred discs. The two movers helped a lot. I remember crying in the closet as I loaded my clothes into the wardrobe boxes.
On the night I moved in, there was a tiny hint of my life to come. My new next door neighbor called about 10 o'clock and invited me to meet her and some friends at the pub. It was early St. Patrick's Day celebrations. I thanked her but declined and explained through the loud pub noise that my stinky tear-stained self was too exhausted from moving to even try to be sociable. I'll have to remind her if that night at her big 3-0 party next weekend.
Looking back on that brief period still brings tears to my eyes. Now I know pure determination pulled me through - and lots of moral support from friends. I believed in myself and knew I deserved a better life. We all do.
Love to the single girls,
Addison
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