Last January, my husband and I celebrated 3 years of marriage, nine years of relationship.
He and I have been through a lot through the years; he was the one who discovered I dislike change. He patiently talked me through my panic attacks. His presence and patience were the reasons I'd decided to have kids even though I was adamant I'd never have any.
When my illnesses were diagnosed, he didn't understand them. He realised I wasn't making it all up, but couldn't grasp what it all meant. Yet he knew to give me space when needed. Knew to take charge of the kids when I couldn't cope anymore. He would send me to bed, light a candle and cover me with my anxiety blanket, left me to calm down. Sometimes it took 5 minutes, other times it took hours.
Last April we filed for divorce.
We'd been rocky for some time he and I. Somewhere during our relationship, our love lives parted ways. And although we were still the best of friends, we both needed more out of the other, and ended up moving on.
Separations are never easy, especially when kids are involved but we're doing the best we can.
For the longest time when hitting that rut, I blamed myself. I thought that, because of my illnesses and the demands of being a mom and wife, I was missing out on my love life. Once I was better, I figured, I would be better in every aspect of my life.
But when I stabilised, when I'd seen a shrink, when I reached out to support groups, I started growing, pushing myself. Discovered I'd gotten stuck -and comfortable- in the status quo, and I was no longer comfortable with that status.
I came to realise that my ex and I had needed each other all those years ago. We were at a new beginning in our respective lives and meeting each other brought us to where we are now. Our union brought forth the two kindest and purest souls on Earth.
And so here we are, both of us looking forward, leading separate lives while still present for our kids. It's a bittersweet feeling but I trust that everything happens for a reason.