Falling in Love with Myself

​I quietly close the sliding door behind me as I step out onto the porch. A chilly breeze caresses my cheek, and I walk over to the swing and sit down, rocking gently with my feet. I think back, remembering. There were no dramatic moments when I knew what I was about to do. No shouting, no final argument. I was there, encased in my life, and then gone.

I take a deep breath and expel it slowly.

I lived in a marriage that felt like one long season of hormonal addiction. First, I was up, then down. The ups were great, the downs, not so much. Abuse doesn’t have to be physical. First, there is the love-bombing, a wonderful, satiating balm that soothes the soul and makes one glow. Then the downward spiral. A place best left alone, not even to be written about. But, oh, the ups are so fulfilling.

I honestly didn’t know who I was. Anything meant for me had to be scheduled around him. Unless it was work-related. If I ever did anything for myself, went anywhere, had coffee with a friend, or visited with an acquaintance, it was a screaming match. He had to do this, that, and the other. Of course, he couldn’t watch the kids. He was busy. How could someone be that busy if they couldn’t hold a job for more than a week or two? I realized too far in that it was about control, not busyness.

The wasband, instead of husband, as I have come to call him, was free to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, or there was hell to pay. I was on constant watch for his needs. I double checked his moods, fixed his favorite dinners, even if I’d been at work all day, and sometimes, even all night. He always told me he was the man every woman shouldn’t marry, that the mistake was mine for marrying him. It was important to keep the peace, and that was the job I took on. Whether I was right or wrong.

The gaslighting was extreme, and I admit that there were times I fell for it. I questioned who I was, where I’d been, and what I’d said. I wondered why I stayed. The wasband said I had to. I wasn’t smart enough to take care of myself, and who would want a woman with two children? He had great fun with that, and for a long time I believed him. After much self-reflection, here in my little cabin, I've come to realize I stayed because it was familiar, and sometimes, staying is easier.

As I swing, I realize the porch leans a little to the side, and the wood stove smokes. Today I've got smoke, snow, and a crooked swing, but I am at peace.  I am alone, and the quiet feels strange at first, like a language I used to speak but forgot.

​The kids are grown and gone. They are married and are committed to keeping the specter of overpopulation at bay. There was nothing to keep me shackled anymore. So, I left. As quietly as I’d stayed. Yes, there was a pit in my stomach, but I had run out of reasons to stay, and once that happened, I had every reason to leave.

I walk into the forest because I want to. The trees rise around me, tall and viridescent. Their branches, white with snow, move with the wind, and the sound feels like a greeting. In acknowledgment, I nod back.  I keep walking until the path curves and disappears behind a stand of pines and oaks. I breathe in the scent of snow, earth and needles, and I relax. Maybe for the first time in twenty-five years.

The birds are the first to notice me. They sing in layers, each voice distinct. I stop and listen. I realize I have not listened to anything in years. Not really. I heard the wusband shout and the kids laugh, myriad cars honk, and jets roar overhead. But now, I hear the birds, and I let the unfamiliar sound in, and it fills me, giving me chills. Lovely, heart-warming, mind-expanding, chills. There is life beyond the rudimentary schisms of humanity. There is more life here than the one I bathed in for twenty plus years.

The following morning a doe steps onto the trail ahead of me. She looks at me without fear. Imagine that! None. Her eyes are dark and steady. I do not move. I feel something inside me shift, like a door opening. She flicks her ears, then walks away, unhurried. I stand there long after she is gone, trying to understand why I suddenly want to cry. There is a rustle behind me. I turn slowly, and two youngsters follow her. Both unafraid, both secure in their mother and where they are going.

I begin to do small things for myself. I buy a new pair of boots. I find them warm and sturdy, and they fit me perfectly. I walk through mud and snow, up and down hills, across rivers, and causeways.  I cook meals I actually enjoy. I smile, remembering the first time I walked into a grocery store to shop and realized it was the first time shopping for myself. Just me. I skipped the cookie aisle, the junk food aisle, and settled for fruit. Dragon fruit, kiwi, watermelon. Amazing fruits.

Today I slept until my body woke on its own. Even then, I woke with trepidation, wondering how long this peace would last. Of course, my anxiety went from zero to sixty at the thought before I realized that this peace could last forever. As long as it is of my own choosing.

I laugh at the way the squirrels chase each other across the branches. I laugh because it feels good to hear my own voice. I laugh because I am alive, and I realize that laughter is more valuable than gold. I laugh because I am free for the first time in my life. Life is joyful. It is beautiful, and I feel a growing determination to teach my children how to laugh… because I’m not sure they know how.  

I start to notice myself. Not the version of me that tried to be quiet and agreeable. The real one. The one who loves the smell of rain on moss. The one who hums when she cooks. Sings too loudly and will try anything once. I LOVE the me who carries a canoe to a kayaking party.

One afternoon, I sit on a fallen log, sunlight warming my face. I close my eyes and feel the forest breathing around me. I say to myself, "I am here, and I am safe.”  

The forest is teaching me. The birds remind me that I have a voice. The animals remind me that it is not mandatory to fear something new. That you can study a fear and choose to disregard it.  The trees remind me that I can stand tall without asking permission.

I plant a small garden behind the cabin when spring arrives. I kneel in the soil and press seeds into the earth. I borrow cuttings from neighbors and fashion protection over the small, fragile sprouts. I do it because I want to watch something grow. I do it because I am growing too. I sing to them. I whisper to them. They are my family.

I realize I am falling in love. Not with someone else. With the woman I am meeting. She is strong. She is tender. She is smart and capable. She is worth choosing.

​I am my own love story. I am my own homecoming. I am alive and laughing because I stayed long enough to discover who I am.