Turn the Page

And so it begins.

I have a few dishes, a mattress, 4-5 potted plants, toiletries, and basic cleaning supplies left in my apartment. It was the first place I ever lived alone--mostly; I reluctantly had a roommate for about six months. Now, I have my first house on my own.

I'm terrified.

After 26 years of working and riding the cycle of abuse, I left my husband. We still have some financial entanglements and a minor child, so that's not the end of it. But, it's a new beginning.

Did I mention that I'm terrified?

Forgive me if these first few posts are stilted and stifled. That's where I am. A writer by vocation, this should be easier.

Quick, ask me about philosophy, theology, gender and sexuality studies, hookah smoking, food, wine, film, musical direction, or heuristics. I can do that. This? Like so many other women, I've been silenced so long that it may take a minute to find my voice.

I mean my real one. Not the one that covered for him; not the one that smiled and gritted my teeth; not the one that wore thick bandages to cover fresh bruises so I could appear under stage lights as I made my director's speech before the summer musical, not the one that walked on eggshells in an effort to avoid conflict only to have  --BAM--  who even knows what triggered it. Really triggered it, not the thing he invented to place blame on me.

That voice.

It's terrifying.

I'm excited to see what I'll say.

And terrified.

If you found me, it's because you were supposed to. Egg me on. Challenge me. Tell me your stories. Sing me your song. Lean on me. Hold me accountable to the absolute truth. Be magical.

But for now, I'm going to close up shop (literally, I own a small business), pee, and have a cigarette before I go cook my last meal in my first apartment alone.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Pure Love, Quarks, and 93,
-A