I left my husband a month ago. Sometimes it seems like more time has passed than that. The dog and I have settled into our new apartment. I’ve figured out where the new-to-me grocery store is. I’ve been out with friends. I’ve joked around about being a “single lady.”
Sometimes, though, it seems like much less time has passed. I am still married. We still have shared bank accounts. He still knows me better than anyone else in the whole world. He’s still the first person I think about talking to when something unbelievable happens.
Why I left isn’t a story I can tell because it’s not fully my story, but I left because I felt I had to. Driving away that day, I sobbed because my life as I knew it was over. That’s not overly dramatic. Every routine, every possession, every person in my life was going to change in some way. I was overwhelmed.
Driving, crying, I prayed. I used to pray a lot. Daily, at least. But I don’t anymore. Somewhere in the thick of life, it began to seem like a waste of time to ask for things that I could just as easily work on myself. Funny how when you know you have absolutely no control anymore, you decide maybe it’s ok to pray again. So I prayed the only prayer I could form coherently.
Please help me. Help me. Help me please.
I drove to my parents’ house, where they took me in, along with my dog. They fed me and comforted me and listened to me and gave me advice and loved my pup. They gave me furniture and helped me move when I found a new place.
My sister and brother texted me advice and support. They showed up with trucks and love on moving day. My sister gave me a laundry basket full of house supplies and my brother gave me a microwave. My brother who lives in Brooklyn mailed me a care package to my new apartment.
My friends took me out for beers and movies. They let me talk or let me change the subject, and helped me talk or change the subject with wisdom I didn’t have on my own. They buoyed me with their hugs and snacks and jokes.
And, yeah, I’m still broken. My soul alternates between feeling like a cold, dark lump, and hurting like hell.
But as I was driving home tonight after hours with people who make me laugh at just the right moments, after days with friends who know just the right things to say, after weeks of support and love and kindness from my family, I realized my prayer, however vague and desperate, had been answered.
I have help. I have so much help. All of these people in my life are God’s hands, if you want to talk about it that way. They’re the answer to my plea to God or just anyone, really, to help me please.
Thank you for helping me, all of you. Thank you.
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