As I look upon my last few days in this home, the only light at the end of the tunnel seems to be the new home where Nisarga and I will finally go to, leaving behind these nightmares and the debris of a dream.
Exiting a marriage with a disabled child in tow is a daunting thought. Yet what alternatives are there? Living here is unbearable. Each evening a summons to join the drunk husband for conversation about my flaws. Or he will make a scene and wake the sleeping child. And the glorious end to each night being fending off advances of a husband who thinks I am stupid, unworthy, evil, and I abuse our son and take advantage of him, but he still has the large heart to think I am beautiful and he doesn’t understand why I refuse such grand love and deny him a hug… and then a grope… and then drunk, rough sex that couldn’t care less about how revolted I am. The options are simple. To say yes, or to say no all night till I say yes or he switches gears and tells me to get lost. Leaving the room is not an option when he will only follow into the room where Nisarga sleeps. I am tired of being a shrew, of jumping at shadows and looking for escape when the man I loved enough to marry is in sight. Suicide is not an alternative with no one else to take care of the little one.
He claims to love me, but not enough to do something about the drinking – which he insists is not a problem and is only my over reaction.
Forward, I must. One foot ahead of the other. Not thinking beyond those few steps in sight. Plodding along, conquering eventually with endurance what I don’t have the strength to overcome now.
The goal is simple. To be happy. To live simple. To create as many possibilities for my son as I can.
I have found a home on rent. It is beautiful. It ended a nightmare hunt of everything I could afford being a dump. It is a home to be happy in, and that is what we will be. I am determined.
I have the support of friends. I have my son. That is all I need.
That home is enough to show me dreams, even as I sit trapped in the loo, with my loving husband waiting for me to come out, so he can resume our “romance”.
I think of escape and I remember stale dreams I once had. Of a bright home full of love and welcome. Of simple, home cooked food. Of growing some of our own food. And more.
Those carefree dreams must now be tempered with limited finances and changed needs of a child with great difficulties. But they are a start. They are something to aspire to, when all else looks hopeless. So I am grabbing them with both hands, and holding myself accountable for creating meaning with this canvas I have created for myself at great cost.
I will blog about home here, so that I can hold myself to account.
Will I be able to create a home worthy of writing about?
The challenge. I will. There is no alternative.