Last week we had a meet-and-greet with a potential mediator, and decided on the spot to work with him and his partner (he's a therapist, she's a lawyer). He was warm and kind and gentle. He'll be a wonderful shepherd, I think, through the path of destruction we're about to walk. I thought I'd feel calmer after getting through that meeting, knowing that we'd taken the first step, that it was actually happening. But no. The little tornado behind my heart swirled up and up.
Because I always have to DO something with my anxiety, I decided I'd make a change in the house...to do something to make it more mine, less ours. We'd covered the walls in the dining room with old photos of all of our relatives...siblings, cousins, parents, grandparents, great grandparents. All their wedding pictures mixed in with ours. The marriages in both of our families have been long, and there was something so special about being surrounded with that history. But suddenly I just couldn't look at them anymore. I took down every picture from his side of the family. Then I took down the pictures from the day that marked the beginning of our own. I tucked them into our wedding album, gently wiped away the dust, then fell on the couch and finally let myself cry. Putting away a life isn't easy, and I don't have to pretend that it is. I almost believe that. Almost.