A bit of background before I jump head first into this post. I left my ex-husband about a year and a half ago. If I’m wanting to be exact, it was the day before my younger son’s first birthday. I should have left long before then, but fear kept me there. Fear of what he’d do if I left, fear of what I’d become, fear of having to raise two boys on my own… Needless to say, that decision was the hardest I’ve ever had to make, despite the reasons for my wanting to leave in the first place. Cut to present: he and I are civil for the most part, but the longest we spend in one another’s company is maybe ten minutes at the most.
Today, I had to spend two hours with him in a car. Cue anxiety, cue nausea, cue stress. And all before actually meeting him. Oddly enough, the ride itself wasn’t awful. A bit disconcerting as he was affectionate: a hand on mine when he noticed the tension, stroking my hair to relax me. My brain was screaming at me the entire two hours, but I managed through it without visibly panicking. No, that came later.
And now that I’m finally breathing regularly and my heart rate has slowed to a normal pulse roughly six hours later, i’m left with the thoughts the day’s screaming had covered.
My marriage was a complete and utter failure. I accept that. It needed to end for me to have any sort of happiness in my life. However, sense then, it seems all I’ve been doing is failing.
I’m sure it’s just my anxiety-ridden mind making me think this, but what is the point of trying if I’m only going to fail? Or, for that matter, what’s the point of life in general? We go to school, work, then die, trying desperately to fill our lives with friendship, love and happiness during. Friendships wax and wane, though, lovers will break your heart and happiness is fleeting at best.
I’m to the point of giving up the effort.