Fear Becomes Me, Part Two, is where I last left my story of divorce. If I had to name the darkest hour of my life, it would be where I am now in my story. The fear of being sick ruled my mind, and thus my life on every level. It was a miserable existence and if not for my children, I am not sure I would be alive today. To know that I allowed something, unwarranted no less, to rule my life really pisses me off, to be honest. It was a waste of time and precious life, but I know too that it was uncontrollable at the time. It directed my life onto a different path and for that part I am grateful. My regret is that I stayed in that black hole for so long.
Every morning and every night I woke up unable to sleep, my first thought was always of what was wrong with me. I went through this methodical process of trying to make sense of every symptom I was feeling, what could be causing it all and what action I should take to make it all go away. Hundreds of times a day I would go through this cycle of thought. My OCD tendencies that I would call mild, seemed to have grabbed hold of this new predicament and relished it like water to the desert. It was a gloomy existence that turned to thoughts of wishing desperately that death would take me and release me from my prison sentence. Each time I was in my car alone, I would sink into a space somewhere between peace and surrender, wishing that I would crash and all my pain inside and out would be instantly gone.
I believe somewhere deep deep inside, my suppressed soul was desperately trying to reach me. My mother had recommended a book to me (which I’ve decided to keep anonymous). Like all bits of hope thrown my way, I bee-lined to the book store. And there I was, in the middle of the night, sleepless as usual, reading this book with a now common determination and desperation to find a solution, an answer, a cure, anything. I was in a grim state during those early morning hours, tears kept welling up and spilling over every few minutes. I was working myself into another frenzy, a borderline state of panic. For an unknown reason, I stopped reading and turned to the back of the book. I read something about contacting the author at an email address.
By this time, I was communicating again with James. He knew on some minor level my fears, but I kept much of it inside. I knew, like my husband, mother, and father, he could only take so much of my gloom and doom ramblings. I had begun to become a phony to everyone now in my life, putting on a happy face for James when I was slowing rotting inside. So when I read this invitation of sorts, I jumped at the chance to pour out my soul. I don’t remember much of what I wrote that night, except that I was at a point where I was begging for death. While fleeting, draining my mind of its poisonous thoughts was cathartic, even though I had no expectations of being heard.
Months later, while still on my miserable, lying, cheating, racked with fear path, I had a missed call and a message on my cell phone. It was a woman who worked for the author and she wanted to know if I would like to be on his radio show. I almost fell over.
Up Next: The Invitation
This post is the continuation of my story and journey to divorce. You can find my story from the beginning under the category, Divorce.
Image credit: http://www.huffingtonpost.com