Fall to pieces

I reread some of my old blog today.  Posts from last summer, from our first “separation” that lasted all of five days.  We moved back in together, not because we realized that we were making a mistake, but because he got caught doing something he shouldn’t, and he wanted me to forget about it…and because I had a complete nervous breakdown and couldn’t handle it.  Or didn’t want to.  Whichever.

Rereading those entries really drove two points home to me.  The first being that we’re making the right decision, because being put through the wringer like that by someone you love is unacceptable, and should never be acceptable.  And the second being that I am afraid — really afraid — of falling to pieces again like that.

Of course, the chances that this will happen are slim, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.

1. The “divorce” has already happened.
Nothing is going to change except that, by law, David and I won’t be husband and wife anymore.  This has already happened.  We live in separate apartments.  Our finances are separated.  We have no bills together — except our cell phone bill, which we retain until January so we don’t have to pay an astronomical fee for breaking our contract.  The only time we encounter each other, really, is in our social strata. 

2. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for this for months.
Separaion #1, in July of 2012, was something that occurred after three months of talking about separating.  I hadn’t prepared myself for it at all.  In this case, I first brought up “I want a divorce” in September of 2012.  It has been nine months since then.  Everyone knows about it, nobody is going to be shocked (I think — although I did just run into someone from church who hadn’t known), and I’ve had time to think about it and wrap my brain around it for quite some time.

3. Nothing is going to change.
Except my name.  I won’t be “Megan B.” anymore.  I’ll be “Megan F.” again.  That’s…it.  Everything else that is going to change, already has.

I’m not going to fall to pieces.  I’m not going to let myself fall to pieces.

I’m in a sort of depressive funk right now, but it won’t last forever.  And I’m wondering if that’s more because of this horrible dreading of anticipation.  That we’re only a week and a half away.

I just can’t wait for this all to go away.  And then I’ll be okay again.

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