I’m still living in the family home. Some say I’m lucky. Some say I’m spoilt. Some say I should be grateful that I still have a beautiful house to stay in and that it’s a good thing the divorce is taking so long …
But that’s not my reality.
Yes, there’s no doubt that I am lucky – I have a superb life in the spaces between the angst, the drama and the hopelessness. My reality is that I am living in my wrecked marriage and that the boundaries I have to keep putting up revolve around the fact that my space is still steeped in everything to do with my husband. There isn’t a place I sit, a cup that I pick up, a knife that I use or a pot that I cook in that hasn’t been bought together, used together and touched by him. But so much more relevant than that – and even more damaging – is the enormous element of outside control that comes with staying here … a sense that I am expected to remain the obedient wife, a feeling that I still have to put the needs and emotional well-being of my estranged husband above my own. And the sense that somewhere in this inability to disentangle, lies a child who has security issues around where he is likely to be living.
I sit here on my balcony pinned between two magnificent mountains, while my child tears around the garden with his friends and plays rough and tumble on his trampoline, and I am grateful for my home and my time alone. And I know that when I am sitting in my apartment with a view of the adjacent building through windows that don’t allow the sunlight in, I will chastise myself for ever wanting out of here. So this is my reminder when that time comes … my reminder that wherever it is that I move to, it will contain me as me and not me as we.
