Yesterday I rang the doorbell to a women’s shelter.  A shelter where abused women seek refuge and safety.  I wish I could say I never in a million years dreamed I would ever be the woman on the inside of that door, but that would be a lie.  I just *hoped* it would never come to that for me.

Yet here I stood.

It’s surreal talking with people with years and decades of experience relating to domestic abuse.  The fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voice, only to realize, oh! They’re talking about ME!  They’re concerned about ME! Something about my situation really IS frightening!  I’ve spent so many years being made to believe I’m the crazy one for being concerned about yet another scary outburst or breakdown, being made to feel like it wasn’t a big deal, it was just an anxiety attack (which, according to him, I could have helped).  It was my fault.  I didn’t keep a clean enough house, so he couldn’t find his stuff.  I didn’t respect him, so he reacted in kind.  Always my fault.

And yet it doesn’t feel real.  I’m being validated left and right.  This is NOT ok.  This is NOT appropriate behavior.  This is NOT a safe situation.  They aren’t making me feel like I’m being dramatic, or overreacting, or trying to paint him in a bad light, or being a bad unsupportive wife.  I don’t know how to sort through all these different emotions.  Friday I was quite literally mourning my husband, who, as far as I knew, was at home planning his own demise.  It’s horrifying to realize you’re not sure if what you’re feeling is sadness or relief – and to admit that out loud makes you feel like an absolute monster. By Saturday, and every day after, it was life as normal.  And I was basically told to be patient, because I was the one that dropped the bombshell about wanting to separate, so I needed to give him time to process.  That would have been SO much easier to accept had there not been loaded guns in my basement, and knowing that mere hours prior, they had been in the trunk of my husband’s car with who knows what intended outcome.

I feel like I’m going through the stages of grief, but out of order.  I have been angry, I have been sad, I have had major guilt.  This is such an unpredictable journey, and I’m so cautious to embrace the next emotion because I don’t know how long it will stick around.

This is so surreal.  This can’t be my life.

Domestic Abuse. It still sounds so foreign on my tongue.

And now I shall submit this blog post, after one tiny but mighty mason jar of moscato, and no reviewing it.  Here’s to life, unfiltered and messy.