I said a few posts back that I would no longer be using this platform as a personal blog but would be putting it to better purposes to spread important messages or promote causes. It felt too shallow to be writing about my own stuff when there are so many issues going on which need to be discussed and that I wanted to call attention to. However, I didn't foresee at the time that I might need to use this blog as a form of therapy and would need to write some words as a way of processing probably the most difficult time of my life. I never properly processed any of the difficult or traumatic things in my past when they happened - not the beating, the grief, the near-fatal accident, the sexual assault, nor the emotionally abusive relationship. And look where that got me - a whole lot of expensive therapy, a pickled liver and a heavy reliance on xanax. So I'm going to try and deal with this while it's happening.
I'm leaving my life behind. Not for the first time - this is the fourth country where I've started a new life then left it all behind. This is what I do and who I am. I'm leaving the place where I've been living and working for four years to move to yet another place where I've never set foot. But this time is different. This time I am also leaving my husband, the man who has been my world for a decade. It's funny; as I sit here on the floor of our little Caribbean apartment, on a windy day in stormy season, I realise that this weekend is Glastonbury festival, way back home about 5000 miles across the sea. Exactly ten years ago this weekend, at good old Glasto, I met the man who I would fall in love with and marry (twice, once in Korea and once in England). It was late on the Sunday, or maybe it was the Monday.... everyone was mangled, people were falling around trying to find the last party to keep on going for as long as possible. And suddenly he was there, looking at me with those blue eyes and making me laugh. And now suddenly here I am ten years later, a few days before Glasto...and I have a ticket to leave this man who made me laugh and still makes me laugh, to move to a Spanish island in nine days time.
This all seems like madness, I feel like I'm dreaming or moving around inside some surreal bubble, and I'm still not even sure on most days whether I am doing the right thing here. I still love this man dearly, and he tells me he still loves me. It's a love of familiarity, of routine, of companionship. It's a love of safety and security. It's a love which travelled around Latin America and Asia and ended up on a Caribbean island... where it became detatched... and somehow cooled off in the heat. It was a drunken love. It was full of hilarious incidents and ridiculous injuries and hospital rooms. It was our love. It was great. There are ten years of wonderful memories all around the world which I will hold tenderly for the rest of my life. But on the other hand, we were laughing recently about the fact that we have probably argued in more countries than any other couple in the world. I screamed at him in Costa Rica, we fought on my 30th birthday in Nicaragua and I locked him out of the hotel room. We didn't speak to each other for two whole days last year in Mexico... and the word divorce was first used.
I have nine more days to process this and I have no idea how. I decided this in my heart a long time ago, but it was so hard for me to finally say it out loud, and when I did - we both agreed. And cried. And cried. How can you quantify such a thing? How can you know whether something is enough, when it really truly is genuine love that we have for one another as people - how can someone be certain that this abstract emotion called love is the wrong kind? We both know this is for the best and we want each other to be happy. For the past few years there has been a lot of lows and a lot of heartache - but now that it is decided, all I can see when I look at his face are the good times, the reasons why I fell in love back at Glastonbury...ten years ago... in the woods.
This is going to hurt like hell.