I’ve made it to Friday.
I’m doing ok this week. At the beginning of the week, I told myself I wasn’t going to let myself have a bad week. Naturally, on Monday, I decided I couldn’t be happy and went down some mental pathways that are best left untraveled. Driving to work, I kept thinking back to feeling scared and alone in the days between his arrest and release, or arguments we’d had after finding the condom in the bedroom trash bin. I told him I was anxious, more anxious than scared.
“How did we get to this place?” I asked him.
“I’m so sorry,” he replied.
That’s all that really can be said.
Last week, two people asked me how I’m doing. I gave them the same answer: I have good days, and I have bad days. A girl doesn’t just bounce right back from her husband committing adultery and felony-level stupidity. There’s good days, and bad days, and better days, and worse days. This week, it’s been mostly good. Loads better than last week, in fact, with its uncertain court meeting.
The good days are starting to outnumber the bad, and it’s all I can do to not worry about everything.
