divorce
Divorce isn't an end; it's a different beginning.
Anything of Value
I found the little black moleskin notebook when I had gone back to check for anything of value. I guess technically I wasn’t supposed to be there, but technically it’s still my house, court rulings be damned. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good guy. I’m a really good guy. I was an eagle scout and I won the eighth grade junior achievement award, but no way in hell was I going to let her cash in on anything more of value, and I was sure there were some things there that we had failed to remember when splitting the assets with the lawyers and judge; some things that she no doubt had failed to mention, knowing full well that I had a poor memory for that kind of thing.
By Kerry Smith5 years ago in Humans
A Letter to The Friend I Lost After My Divorce
Dear Ex-Friend, I ate the quiche you made. You know, the one you made for Nathan because his wife left a few months ago and you felt sorry for him. He shared it with me because I’m on my own tonight too — my kids are at their dad’s — and it was delicious. I loved the mushrooms you added. Honestly, it was a really good quiche. I would say it falls within the top five best quiches I’ve ever eaten.
By Kelly Eden5 years ago in Humans
Maryanne
She pulled into the driveway. As she sat there holding the keys, she couldn’t bring herself to get out of the car right away. It was not exactly the house she wanted. Instead the unremarkable little ranch was a sensible, responsible choice. But she couldn’t help but think about the tiny, charming cottage with the arched doorways and cozy breakfast nook. That’s where she really pictured herself. That’s where she saw herself hosting intimate dinner parties with close friends, sipping after dinner drinks in front of the fireplace. She wondered how she was supposed to have the impossibly beautiful post-divorce life she imagined in this basic, two bedroom ranch.
By Tera Staten5 years ago in Humans
Little Black Book
As if the divorce and moving hadn’t been enough, Cecelia was now tasked with cleaning out the eerie attic of her new home. She hadn’t known about the attic when she purchased the home. It wasn’t until she was bringing boxes in and accidently touched a trigger that opened a door to a hidden staircase. It struck her as strange that the realtor hadn’t mentioned it but maybe he didn’t know about it. Either way it was a large extra space she could clean up and turn into a storage room and maybe her new writing space. Something maybe a little less creepy.
By Corinne Oates5 years ago in Humans
A Losing Game
She knew she needed to slow down. Slow down. Those two words were far reaching beyond the pavement she stared at before her. It was early, and hunger was causing her stomach to rub against her backbone. Just a couple more hours and she would be home. Food, a hot shower and her favorite pajamas would make her feel better. With any luck, the combination of those things would cast a magical spell and make the pain go away.
By Regina Walters5 years ago in Humans
Till Death Do Us Part
Weak December daylight filters through the gauzy bedroom curtains. I roll over and reach for Nick, but of course, he isn’t in bed. I almost forgot Nick is leaving me today. Leaving me for a younger version--of me. Leaving me and my infertile womb and my drinking problem brought on by my infertile womb. Leaving me. Discarding me. Moving on without me.
By Lisa Black5 years ago in Humans
We Girls Have To Stick Together
I was sure I would recognize her when I saw her. Philip has a “type.” I already know her name is Bridget. She also described herself in great detail on the phone, which made me even more agitated than I was before we made our lunch date. We didn’t do the usual “you’ll know me by the white carnation” crap. She just said, “I’ll be the one who’s eight months pregnant.” That should be easy enough to spot. Especially in an out of the way truck stop diner. This greasy spoon would not have been my first choice for our meeting, but I couldn’t risk being spotted by anyone who knew my husband, or by my husband for that matter.
By DeEtta Miller5 years ago in Humans
Thinking Clearly
Acknowledgment I dedicate this guide to all of the strong women who have survived domestic abuse. I am proud of you for finding the strength inside of you—that you didn't know you had. For those of you still caught up in the struggle, let this guide be your guiding light.
By Dejaye Botkin5 years ago in Humans
Bad Girl House
Written while the kids were still having visitation and phone calls during 2010 Left as originally written I hate you. I hate what you did to me. I hate what you did to these children. Hate that I have to deal with these emotions everyday. I struggle to keep myself going, to keep myself strong, to keep myself motivated. I hate when I feel like hiding from the world. I hate when I just want to stay in bed and sleep to make this all go away for awhile. I hate that the past feels like it will always be there. I hate that I can’t stop the present from becoming someone else’s terrible past. I hate that I can’t warn anyone about what you are. A manipulative, controlling, evil, scary, out of control monster. A loose canon, an abuser who only thinks about himself above all others. Even over his children. I want you to have a mark that tells people what you really are, before they are trapped and finally discover it for themselves. I hate that you are around other children and animals after seeing what you are capable of. You are only capable of torture. I believe that you enjoy the suffering of others. I hate how you continue to manipulate the kids. Who only sees their children five times in one entire year? Who voluntarily, purposefully, doesn’t go see their kids, regardless of the circumstances? And even though you never see them, the past still controls them. I hate that they are still afraid of you, and intimidated by you. They will not do or say anything to upset you, like you’re actually someone important. You are nothing. You are a loser who needs to mooch off of others to survive. You couldn’t take care of anything or anyone. I don’t think you know how. You have no respect for what the and I went through because of you. I hate that you deny everything that happened, but in your own mind you must know. I hope that it is eating you love to know exactly what you so stupidly threw away. I hate that I am seen as the bad guy. I hate picking up the kids and having that sickening feeling in my stomach. Having to wonder what kind of ignorance went on this time. Hate that your parents have no respect for me or the kids. My requests are ignored, and you all play games with their heads. The trauma they went through is not just some trivial thing. If these kids had an issue with you, it runs much deeper than just simple surface emotions. They know what you are too. I hate that I am like a ghost. I hate that any communication turns into a fiasco. I hate everything about going to court. Your voice, your face, your presence, your attitude, your ignorance, your disrespect, your posture. You should be locked up and tortured, just like I was. You don’t deserve any chance at happiness, because you took it from us for so long. You will see us happy from a very far distance, and I hope it drives you insane. I hate when I think about how many times I should have and could have gotten out earlier. Especially when I was out of the house. I hate when self blame creeps back in and brings me down. But then I firmly remind myself that you did this to us and to yourself. It was never my fault. I hate having to think about wanting to hurt you. I hate knowing that you even exist. I hate the sound of your voice and your condescending tone with the kids. I hate that you’ll have to be a part of their lives, but maybe they can decide that you don’t need to be before too long. I hate when I am full of hate.
By Kathy Sees5 years ago in Humans
Leaving
There have been findings that determine that the brain cannot tell the difference between mental and physical pain. When people feel emotional pain, the brain's equivalent areas become stimulated as when people perceive physical pain. So seven years into my marriage, I felt pain. The husband never placed his hands on me. I did not have scars or bruises, but I sensed an enormous amount of pain. The pain was genuine. And it hurt a lot. I decided that I didn't want to continue with this pain.
By 722034Years5 years ago in Humans
