It begins Friday night. The distractions of the day are done. My son falls fast asleep. Deafening silence descends upon the house. My thoughts run rampant which turns into anger, hurt, sadness. I hear my husband yelling at me, accusing me, spewing hatred and lies while his girlfriend stands by his side.
My thoughts are louder than any comedic or uplifting television programming. I pick up a book, but all I can hear is him yelling.
The betrayal cuts deeply and I am wounded, crushed, balled up on the bathroom floor sobbing while my son sleeps in the next room. I pray he doesn’t walk in on me, that my sobs aren’t so loud as to wake him.
It’s the only time I have to let it out. I must be strong in front of my boy. I can’t be emotional. It stays inside, eating me up during the day with bits of distraction: playing in the pool with my son, cleaning the house, doing yard work. Nevertheless, I push the pain back in an attempt to enjoy my moments with the kid.
This routine repeats for the next two days.
This was my weekend.