19. counting days

1 day without tobacco. 

5 days since deleting social media.

19 days of writing to you here.

168 days of moving my body. 

452 days alcohol free.

3,007 days of motherhood.

5,592 days of being deeply in love.

and 6,574 days since I chose myself.

***

What do you mean, chose yourself? 

Eighteen years ago, around this time of year, I left a six year long abusive relationship. Walking out was one of the harder things I've done in life - at the time, it felt like the hardest. 

I've been reflecting on that period of my life, and the non-linear path of choosing ourselves, of pursuing what's good for us, of healing as a process of discerning the next right step. Sometimes, when we're in the messiest, hardest, darkest, gut-wrenchingly confusing-est chapters, we don't see the beauty of who we are - but in hindsight it becomes more clear. 

In just 8 days, the lunar nodes will shift from Aries / Libra to Pisces / Virgo. The last time this happened was eighteen years ago. It marked the beginning of a season of radical change and growth for me - but it started with ugly. It started with scared, hurt, and deeply alone. 

Rather than tell you about it, I'd like to share the story with you of what happened 6,574 days ago - when I chose myself. 

Thank you for witnessing. 

Part 1: Walking Out

November 13, 2006

You have to throw up. 

Who was talking? I willed them to be quiet and let me float, let me drift. 

Throw up. Your breathing is shallow. You’re overdosing. Get up. Go to the bathroom. 

The voice was like my voice, but not me, because I was in the cotton candy cloud.

You’re going to die. GET UP. 

The voice boomed and my eyes fluttered open. Death wasn’t really on my agenda. I tried to stand up, but lost my footing and found the carpet hugging my face. The bathroom light was a million miles away. Determined, I crawled.

Time expanded. I died a thousand deaths dragging my failing body to the bathroom. Blackness. Then vomit in my hair; stomach and throat burning. I no longer had a shirt. And he was there, looming, waves of disgust radiating from his presence. A socked foot nudged me, checking if I was alive. 

Am I alive? 

I was not sure. 

A disdainful voice spoke. 

“Get up. You’re a mess. I could hear you puking from downstairs - this shit has to stop. Eat some food and quit being such a drama queen.”

He turned off the light and left the room. I was alone, alive - maybe - and adrift. I wondered if he knew how close it had been. I’d purged before, but always food, never my pills. I would never waste them that way. 

Call of Duty gunshots and hostile laughter rang out from the living room. I slumped against the toilet, sipping whispers of breath. There was no ambulance, no trip to the hospital, no charcoal drip, no stomach pump - just the soft glow of the night light and warm tears dripping softly onto porcelain.

***

December 30, 2006

I walked out on his twenty eighth birthday. It seemed fitting, somehow, to abandon him on his day of celebration. It would be my day of celebration, too. My independence day - the day that I would finally say “no more” to the insults, screaming fights, hurtful words and sleepless nights.  

I dressed myself carefully that morning, selecting size zero jeans, a white tee shirt, and brown Coach sneakers. A red cardigan sweater for warmth, and my gray peacoat. Staring at myself in the mirror, I saw a shell, a wraith-like figure with sunken cheeks and glassy eyes. She stared at me, probingly, questioning my intention. No, not intention, conviction. My heart beat a little faster as we locked eyes.

Would we pull this off? Would he catch us?

Short of breath, paralyzed by my own gaze, I fumbled in my pocket for the little silver matchbox that held my relief. Opening it, I selected a small pink bar, popped it below my tongue, and felt it start to dissolve. The numbness came on like a soft, warm blanket as my heart and thoughts slowed down. 

You can do this.

For two years I’d dreamt of leaving, and for six months I’d been plotting to jump ship. My freedom was tangible now. I could taste it in the bitterness of the little pink pill. I needed to get through setting up his birthday party and act like everything was normal. The blankness on my face was practiced; for years I’d been hiding my truth. Speaking it incited violence. 

I drove to his best friend Dan’s house in my cozy, calm, Xanax haze. Dan’s wife Amber and I had worked for weeks to arrange everything for the boys’ annual birthday poker tournament. The grand prize this year was a large golden statue of a rooster. Josh chose it so he could harass the winner with how much they “loved the cock.” 

While Amber and I made guacamole, stocked the coolers, and prepared chicken wings, the men got drunk on the golf course. Amber peppered me with questions about plans for marriage and children. She and Dan had just found out that they were pregnant. He was obnoxious. She was soft-spoken. Maybe they were happy. I couldn’t speculate.

“I think we’re ready. I’m going to head home and get ready. I’ll be back around seven,” I told Amber, the lie smooth and round as it rolled off my tongue. 

“Sounds good - Dan just called. They’re pretty rowdy already, so take your time,” she said, carefully plating fresh-baked cookies.

I smiled. Response time would be slow. By the time he figured out that I wasn’t coming, I’d be long gone. 

“Ok, see you in a bit,” I said.

We wouldn’t see each other again.

As I drove back to the house that was once a home, I reflected on the magnitude of the moment. Was this what divorce felt like? Minus the papers, I mean. We shared a home, car insurance, bank accounts. My parents paid his college tuition. He never repaid the debt. I’d raised his daughter since she was five years old. She was the reason I’d stayed as long as I had. It took him choking me out in front of this sweet nine year old girl to wake me up. As my feet dangled off the floor, a single thought floated through my mind:

I’m teaching her what love looks like. 

It took me five years, two weeks, and five days to realize her father was a broken person who I couldn’t fix.

I killed myself to save him until only two choices remained: him, or me.

It took me over five years to choose myself. 

When I arrived back at the house, I carefully took the suitcases that I’d stashed in the closet, and removed my carefully folded clothes from the dresser. I’d prepared for this. Three large suitcases held clothes, toiletries, and journals. I took the most care with my pills, placing Percocet in the far left side pouch, tucking the valium in beside it, and stacked the xanax and vicodin bottles in with my toiletries. As I placed each bottle, I mentally counted and recounted how long they would last. I packed my weed and quadruple percolated pink princess bong last, wiping away dregs of odorous water before loading it into a soft maroon velvet carrying case.  

Mindy Lou watched, nervous and shaking all over, fear and anxiety wracking her tiny little furry body, as I stacked bag after bag next to the front door. Brow furrowed, she gazed at me with her big brown eyes and silently willed me to take her with me. 

“Don’t worry, girl, I won’t leave you.” I assured her. “You’re my road dog.” 

My words didn’t seem to comfort her, but when I pulled her airplane travel bag from the closet and set it by the front door, she scrambled and scratched at it until I unzipped the door to the bag and let her in. Inside, she continued to tremble and shake, terrified that she’d be left behind. I sighed and carried her out to the truck so she’d know she wasn’t being abandoned.

It took about an hour to get everything loaded. Mindy sat shaking in the front seat. With every piece of luggage she seemed to understand more fully that we were leaving. After loading it all, I walked back inside to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. 

Surveying my home for the past four years, I noted what was left behind. Bookshelves full to the brim with hardcover collections and framed family photos, smiling faces telling the lies we told ourselves. My kitchen, crock pots and matching red KitchenAid utensils, chosen so carefully by a child playacting the grown householder. Potted plants, my furniture, artwork, decor. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. None of it is real. None of it will last. None of it matters.

Opening my eyes, I took one last look and then turned around and walked out the door.