Opening up...

Borrowing an eight year old's mattress and floral sheets, can make even the strongest of character's question their decisions.

Shoving one of countless unfinished journals into the bottom of a hot pink Victoria's Secret bag, I started to wonder if I have the dumb.

At this point, I openly admit my faults, and chuckle at the chaos that is my life.
Every belief system I'd accepted to be true, questionable at best.

My daughter would tell you this stinks.
My son would update the current number of broken promises, to the decimal.
My husband would suggest I checked out a long time ago.

The truth is they're all right.

So, where have I gone?
Fifteen minutes down the road.

I currently wear two masks, crazy mommy and bus driver guru.
I struggle owning that last part, because I'm fairly certain a guru is a master of sorts.
Judging the proverbial flames licking the ceiling of our home life,
my shit is anything but together.

Let's get back to the mattress.

Often times I flitter around this city, observing people from all walks of life.
I take them to work, I take them to school, but secretly I take them to new levels of consciousness. It was only a matter of time before my own consciousness evolved, and with that comes major change.

I remember a fight I'd had with my husband months before I packed my bags, he was bent down leaning into the passenger side window.
"You talk about all these changes you're going through, but I honestly don't see anything different about you."
"Statements like that evoke change Brent, the problem is I'm growing at such a fast pace I'm terrified you wont be able to come with me."
"Come with you? Come with you where?!"
"Through life." I drove away in tears.

Fast forward three months, my children live with ghosts. My house is filled with a dark energy and I can't seem to shake the feeling that something has gone horribly wrong. This is not the way I envisioned my partnership. I want to share and laugh and play, but instead I'm hiding behind the keys of my iPhone and he's locked in a gaze on Youtube. We'd argued over everything, how to raise the children, how to put the silverware away, who's spending more money, who's making more money, but the truth is we were hiding from a painful truth. I'd woken up. He preferred the comfort of an organized life. Our paths were not headed in the same direction. Was that it for us then? I refuse to accept that.

Our children require so much attention, the amount of meditation I needed to overcome this storm was never going to happen. My partner was so comfortable he refused to move forward or expand his consciousness, while my consciousness had evolved, but not enough to tolerate our differences. I started scrolling craigslist. Room for rent. Single white female preferred. How about separated Native woman? Seemed easy enough. I tossed around ideas, counseling didn't seem viable considering we work opposite schedules and the times we had attended our therapist forgot our story. Perhaps it's time to rewrite ours. Many people assume separating from your partner is a pit stop on the way to divorce, the death of a marriage. For me it was about ending disillusionment, because we could achieve greatness, we have everything inside of us as people and all the love needed to kill it. I refuse to watch this fizzle out, to go down without a fight, to walk away. He had no idea it was coming.

October 30th, 2015. That was the day I found my roommate, an old friend from high school texted me. Apparently I'd answered her ad on craigslist. My whole spine tingled. I'd just found the sign I was on the right path, the only thing left to do was deliver a ball of pain to someone I've loved more than air for a damn near decade. That's all. Needless to say I waited. Initially I told him I would move as soon as I found a roommate, but the universe works faster than that and literally provided a safe comfortable place to rest my troubled mind as well as a ridiculously supportive mother to help afford such a large life decision. This is temporary, a time for reflection and care for my heart. I return to our home three-four days out of the week and I struggle every time I leave. Each residence holds part of my soul, I'm torn between self love and love of family.

Throughout this process I hope to construct a bridge, it must be firm, timeless, and carry me across the threshold of life.