Pink outside the box.

I hurt so bad.

And I am angry.

I don’t want to feel anger in my heart. I want to feel loved. I want to be healed and held and spoken to. I want my love to be healing and therapeutic and good for someone other than me.

Writing in this diary is all I have to relieve myself of some of my emotional burden. I am anonymous here and nobody can hurt me or threaten me or call me vulgar names. I mean, they could but they never have.

I’ve adapted coping skills that I read about here and there online in my struggle to do something to make myself feel better. One of the things I read said to create a colorful living space and fill that space with only things you love. No color scheme. Color IS the scheme.

I love pastels and I love the 1940’s. I don’t know why, but I’ve been drawn to that era all my life. All but one of my kids has moved out of my two story, 5 bedroom house.

So, in late August of last year, I moved out of my marital bedroom and created a living space upstairs consisting of a bedroom, an office, a living area/landing and a private bathroom.

It was a move that brought about monumental emotional changes.

Things with Roger were terribly wrong and I knew it, but it would be four months before the shit hit the fan.

Also, I was bothered by my husband’s affection in bed at night. He did not want sex and hadn’t for years, but he wanted to cuddle to go to sleep. I would have welcomed the cuddling…had sex and intimacy been part of the package. It might sound petty, but if you get rejected enough times you learn to hate the rejector and I hated him for that…UNTIL I moved out of the bedroom. That move allowed me to distance myself and take control of my own body and who touched it and that was a game changing shift in our relationship.

My husband felt upset at first and I blamed the move on my back, saying the bed he chose without my input hurt my back, which was the truth. The move actually enabled me to be much kinder towards him, in the long run.

I painted my bedroom a soft, cottagey pink and I filled it with pastel treasures like pottery planters and a bright yellow chenille bedspread patterned with two colorful peacocks prancing around in full plumage. There are crocheted doilies and soft antique wool rugs with florals. The floor is white painted pine and all the trim is the same. There are big and small hand painted metal tole trays on the wall and a big screen tv with all the channels I could ever want. There is wicker furniture and a barkcloth cushioned rocker painted a soft green.

It’s serene and beautiful in my softly lit pastel bubble. Sleeping here has taught me to find comfort in myself and to learn what it feels like to be on my own at the most vulnerable part of my 24 hour day…in the silent dark.

I wake up often. All night, on and off. But eventually, my heart and troubled mind are gonna let me rest for longer periods.

In the morning when I open my eyes and the painful memories come creeping in, the beautiful colors seem to remind me to find the beauty in something as simplistic as basking in the morning sun. After I wake, I take time to lay in the sliver of light that finds its way around the edges of my pink polka dot curtains and I catch up on a few forums I follow on my phone.

I spend ten minutes lounging in my big comfy bed, enjoying the serenity.

Eventually, I make coffee and walk across the hall to my office, which I painted bright yellow with red accents, and I begin my work day there. Now, I will split my time between my online store platform and the barber shop and bank what I make.

I’m laying the groundwork for my plan.

There is one thing I had to get used to, though, when I moved upstairs. From every window, I see only the treetops.

At first, it unnerved me that I never saw the ground. But now, I am accustomed to my view and it’s a small price to pay for that first step towards independence. My husband seems to understand a little bit about what lies ahead and believe it or not, he respects my private space. He comes upstairs to visit ME. When he tried to make a final effort like Roger’s wife and used sex as a last ditch bargaining chip, I locked his ass out and when he tried again three nights later, I heard the knob turn and catch in the lock and I silently whispered, “go away, it’s over.” I held my breath waiting for his next move. After ten full seconds, I heard him go back down the stairs. I had finally taken control of the house that for the time being, I own too.

What I wanted to say was this … I’m claiming my half of our house while I’m still here so get your sorry ass hands off my doorknob and go to your own bed. You had 32 years to fix it and it’s too late now.

I think I can safely say he has accepted the first actual stage of separation.

I’m going to walk away from everything I’ve ever known in less than one year. I’m going to be alone for the first time in my life. I will have forfeited my home and all my security in order to be away from him for the first time since I was 22 years old.

But I ain’t afraid like Lori. I will make my own security. I will care for myself.

It’s time to let it all go.

And see what stays.