It’s official. The divorce is final. I am untethered. No longer a wife. No longer a “Mrs.” No longer able to afford to stay home with the kids. No longer able to look forward to being an empty nester who finally gets to put herself first. No longer picturing sitting on the porch in the morning with coffee and the husband of my youth. I am adrift. I float through several days of sobbing and drinking and not getting out of bed and not wanting to go home and forgetting to feed myself and overeating and sleeping too much and not being able to sleep. I send regretful text messages compulsively, knowing I shouldn’t. Knowing I should practice self care rather than lashing out. But I ignore my wiser, saner voice and send them all anyway. I am flailing. I am suffering. And I do not go quietly. I do not apologize for saying out loud what I’ve been keeping secret for years.What do I have to lose now? Not my marriage. That’s been lost. Exhausted from days or weeks or years or decades of wal
Writer | Creator | Extrovert | Urban Socialite | Divorcée | SAHM x4