September 24th marks the one year anniversary of the first night in my own house. I had spent a few days getting things moved and cleaned and planned to have a couple nights in the place on my own before the kiddos came with me. I needed to see what that felt like. That night, alone in my new home, I sobbed on the couch like my insides were being ripped out. I can remember the sound of my cries, as if I were on the outside observing. - The poor girl, no one knows her pain. No one else can hear her. And that is the way she wants it.

That night I slept with the lamp on in the living room. The darkness was too thick, and I needed to see that I was sleeping alone. In the light of the morning, I could breathe. I could see. I felt ok. I don’t remember much about the next day. That is probably the way it should be. Days meld together and just are what they are. Routines develop. New paths are worn. Only the anniversaries stick out -only the more memorable times. Sometimes those memories are bliss. Sometimes they are pain.

As this first anniversary in my home passes I feel so so much. I’ve got some mourning going on and some solid “one step after another” happening. I have a plan tonight. I will remember it next year. Maybe I will have a new tradition.