Progress...

Sometimes I feel like I haven't made any progress since separating from my husband. That I am just as sad, angry, confused and generally heartbroken as I was 9 1/2 months ago when I moved into my own apartment. I can still go sideways when I have a few, breaking down into a heap of messy "poor me" tearfulness. I can still panic when I play out possible future scenarios in my head. When he has a baby with that new skinny, hippie girlfriend of his I'm gonna wanna cut his balls off. He wouldn't have one with me. He said it would kill him. Incensed and wrathful, I vow to make vengeful speeches and grand angry gestures inspiring, finally, his self reflection. All the while failing to recognize that this vile offense hasn't even happened yet. And may not ever (Hah.)

And then I pause for a moment and remember: it's only been 9 1/2 months. Not even a year. I love my apartment. I feel comfortable and at peace when I'm in it, either with my kids or without them. It is a space I feel at home in and I don't feel guilty that it isn't dirt cheap or falling apart. I love that I can do whatever I want to do with my kids when they are with me. Again, without guilt or eggshell tiptoeing. I can take them on adventures, big and small, without fear of a tongue lashing upon our return. I can plan vacations and not ask permission or fear emotional punishment if I choose to go even if he doesn't want to. I can drive (i.e. not take the bus) without feeling like an earth killing heathen. I don't cry very often, save those evenings when I've had one too many. I can't actually remember the last time I cried myself to sleep from anger or loneliness. I don't feel lonely even though I'm alone a lot more than I was when I was married. (I'm still married, technically, but won't be soon.)  My house is clean and orderly, the way I like it, and I don't mind being the one to clean it. It's how I left it when I head to work in the morning and I like that. It smells nice and I like that. I can buy affordable furniture and not feel like I'm making a dastardly environmental decision or depleting our bank account beyond repair.

And while I don't get many hugs from adults, and I don't get to snuggle in bed at night, and I'm not in any kind of regular cadence in regards to sexual activity, I don't feel love starved. I feel supported and cherished. By my kids, my friends, my workmates. No one tells me that I'm too competitive, or that everyone at work must hate me. No one looks at me like there is steam coming out of their ears because I ask: "What did you do today? Good day?"

I want the grown up hugs. And the spooning. And the sex. And even more than that I want the emotional and moral support from a partner. Someone to say: You can do it! I'll be here when you get home. Or...It's ok it didn't work out this time. You'll get 'em next time, tiger. Or... Come here. You look like you had a hard day.

I long to know what it is like to have that kind of support. To not be afraid to walk into a house that actually has someone in it when I get home. To have someone to make choices with, rather than convince that my preferences aren't evil. To be with someone who doesn't view having a conversation that includes questions as an interrogation.

I want someone to love. And to love me back. And recognizing that I deserve that is progress enough for me, after less than a year on my own. I suppose progress happens when you're not looking. It happens in tiny increments that add up over time. It happens in the classic tempo of two steps forward, one step back. And then, just when you're thinking I've made a dreadful mistake, you take stock. And you see the distance you've come. And you say to yourself: I AM PROGRESS.