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Weary Wings

So…yesterday was fun. The highlights included hours of phone conversation with him during which I set down the phone and walked away, because if I hung up he just called back over and over. This was followed by him showing up uninvited at the door of my home, yelling through said door about how I don’t respect men or the priesthood and have renounced my religion.

Good times.

It’s an interesting thing, getting divorced from a psychopath–equally as fascinating as being married to one. I have this piece of myself that is constantly observing myself and my interactions with other people. She watches my reactions to things, analyzing and calculating how and why I behave the way I do or feel the way I feel. I call her my little psychologist. I confer with her, from time to time, and gauge my level of healthy versus insane. Insanity usually wins out, but I’ve found that isn’t always a bad thing, when one is aware he or she is crazy. Stubbornly ignorant insanity, however, is how you end up with psychopath.

Anyway, my little psychologist informed me that it’s okay for me to be PISSED OFF when the ex acts that way. I find myself getting frustrated with me for allowing him to affect me, for giving him any impact on me whatsoever. But why in the world do I get irritated at myself when he is the one behaving inappropriately? Yes, I need to take the high road and be proactive and not reactive. But, for Pete’s sake, when someone is legitimately harassing me, I get to be irked about it without berating myself.

I got some good advice from a friend recently to take a walk. I tried that yesterday, after round three of incessant phone calls. It worked fairly well. I stomped my frustrations into the ground, picked up some rocks and ground them together in my palms, and prayed. I regained some semblance of peace and headed home–

to see his truck in my driveway and him standing at my front door.

Ugh.

I don’t like resorting to threats. Threats are weakness, a terrorists favorite tool. Threats are the ex’s go-to weapon in his arsenal. But, when the threats are intended to have a follow-through, threats can be powerful. I calmly told him he was trespassing after he kept yelling through my door and refusing to leave, and I threatened to call the police. He finally left.

Sigh.

Anger isn’t always a bad thing. The Savior himself got very angry multiple times, but he applied that anger proactively. He used his anger to accomplish something good and right. It’s okay for me to be mad, and channel that anger into protecting myself and my kids. I just need to monitor that anger and make sure it does not turn into bitterness and hatred. Into hardness.

Sometimes, though, I don’t care about the lessons anymore. Sometimes, I don’t want to have self-control, to analyze or calculate about myself and the people around me. Sometimes, I just want to punch a wall, and feel the satisfying give of the sheetrock as it breaks over my knuckles. I want to watch my hand bleed and feel the pain and power of destruction. I want to physically express all that’s going on inside of me, admit to myself and the world that big pieces of me are still broken, still lost, and forever scarred.

And I want to be able to tell things like that to people and for them not to be afraid of me.

Let’s just say, while my previous posts have been so jubilant and positive, and accurately so, I’m far from “all better.” This ordeal is far from over. My ex will be in my life for the rest of my life, and right now, that’s an exhausting concept.

I give myself permission to be tired for a minute, to be angry and upset and done putting up with him and everything else that irritates me in my life, just for a minute.

Soon, I’ll get back up, dust myself off, and return to my happy.

But, just for a little while, my wings are tired; I need a rest.

And I’m letting that be okay.

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