He moved out months ago and I've finally decided to accept his decision for our lives. I'm starting to see it as my deliverance. I'm letting go. It's easy to say it's over in anger, but it's moments of peace and reflection that I listen to. I sent an email to my attorney tonight asking about the next steps that I would like her to walk me through. There were no tears but I felt peace and an acceptance that is new.
A friend emailed me and we had a back and forth, picking up like we were just getting drunk together last week. He told me that I seem happier now. He's right. I'm doing better than I was before I found out we were over. He offered his support and love in the way good friends with lasting memories do. He was there when we first started dating. With gentleness that could only come from a friendship built on love and mutual respect, he told me I was so much better than who I was settling for, without making me feel bad about it. In the years I put between us for the sake of my husband, he never held a minute against me. He couldn't imagine what I'm going through, nor would I want him to. He's a newlywed and I adore his bride.
I started clicking through Facebook albums to delete him, but decided some albums can just be hidden until I'm ready to erase those images that are etched in my mind. I want to ensure a decent history is catalogued for our kids because we are who they came from, and I can't erase who they are and hope that will make it better. They come before I do, and family pictures still sit on walls.
I haven't spied on his page for a while and I haven't checked to see if I'm still blocked, because it no longer matters what he does. I thought giving up Facebook for Lent would be too hard, and so I gave up Lent, but find I've also given up Facebook because so much of "us" belonged to those walls. I'm going through emails and wiping away what is no longer relevant to me and some of it was relevant to us. I do it as a farewell and there are no tears or anguish. There's no sorrow or anxiety. I've heard "it is what it is," and the phrase feels like giving up in failure. Instead I feel it is what we've made it and I accept the choice to not change it.
This momentary pause is my moment before I clear out music files. It's music that he liked. It's his music. I don't want to shuffle my songs to hear his voice tell me he's winning in the wife department. It doesn't make me cry. It doesn't hurt or make me angry. It's just no longer what I want to hear and I can control that.