I could write this in a way that would get ME all the support and make Peter look like the enemy.

I could write this in a way that makes me look like a victim and make you feel sorry for for me.

But I just want to tell the truth.

My story.

My feelings.

MY DIVORCE.

Now, before you get all outraged on my behalf and “How could he do that and leave her like this?“, the divorce was MY decision.

It isn’t something that happened because of the strokes or handicap, it stems from issues that started years before I was in the wheelchair. Before Georgia. Before Peyton’s cancer.

There were little things that built and built with time and my priorities became protecting my kids and myself.

The kids know.

I wouldn’t think about telling any of you before telling them.

They’re hurting, but they also knew that something was wrong.

I feel so sorry to them to not be able to provide the home they deserve.

I HATE THAT.

Especially after what they’ve already been through.

But having been through what I have, overcoming the obstacles in my way, embracing my inner happiness….I owe it to myself.

If I DO have another stroke tomorrow, I want my kids to know that the price of happiness and fulfillment comes with a cost.  But it’s worth it.

Are they an opportunity to rise to a challenge?

Are they set so that there is an inevitable failure?

Why do some find them empowering and some find themselves buried under a world of frustration?

Why is there such a difference between the expectations you have for yourself and that somebody has OF you…even though they come to the thing?

Can the expectations become their own limitations.

How many time do you not-quite meet expectations before you give up?

Is being realistic about expectations the same thing as buckling under the constant pressure.

Is there crippling weakness in admitting devastation or incredible strengh in finding the compulsion to start again.

Or both.

photo credit

It was at Sam’s, of all places.

It gave me this Helen Keller in the midst of 42-gallon tubs of peanut butter feeling.

It was very profound.

Being in a wheelchair puts you at a constant height where you see and experience all sorts of things. (Let’s just say “camel-toe” has a whole new meaning)

I’m shorter than I used to be.

I see things that might go unnoticed by others.

I’ve got my girls and Jackie with me, helping me feed the small country that is called A TEENAGE BOY, when I see it.

My profound moment.

Wearing sweat pants and sensible shoes.

She was very heavy.  He was very bald with a beer belly.

They were holding hands and you could feel the affection that radiated from them.

She said something that made him laugh and they they both cracked up like kids.

I’m betting she wasn’t that overweight when they got married.

Chances are, he didn’t have the paunch or hairline when they were newlyweds.

The changes were gradual, not sudden, but change them time did.

IT DIDN’T MATTER.

Yeah, I don’t know squat about their relationship, but I like to think that whatever changes they went through were superficial.

I do know my relationship.

I know what we’ve been through and this is hard, but not the hardest.

We didn’t make it this far to give up now.

I can’t say this new outlook will suddenly make every insecurity go away.

I WILL do my damnedest to remember that couple at Sam’s.

The way they held hands.

The love they shared.

The love WE share.

Remembering that all the changes will be superficial someday.

I also feel every stress intensely. I try not to let it show.

His boils hot, blows over, then is over.

Mine simmers below the surface for a long time.

We’ve had a lot of stress to deal with over time.

We’ve had stresses that make most people crack.

It’s hard being married to person to like me.

I feel bad that I require constant reassurance that THIS is where he wants to be.

That THIS situation is eve  going to seem right.

I’m a constant source of stress. My own. His.

There are things I fail at that I feel heavily on my shoulders.

I’m simmering.