Micki's Musings

I'm shifting out of it, now. The fear has dissipated. The frustration has ebbed. My desires now stem from wanting to do and be better instead of basic survival. I'm glad. I keep trying to do this life in absolutes. I keep trying to find the  fix, the solution, the end to the fear. I keep thinking I've learned the  lesson. Silly me. Life is cyclical. It's up and down and backwards and forwards and sideways and up and down again. Every single time I think, "Oh, I've figured this out! I've got this, now!" life shows me how ridiculous I am. Pride doesn't get to ride this ride. Whenever it does, it throws me off course and I crash. I'm ready to listen again. I'm ready to see that I have to employ self-discipline and do things I don't want to do. I despise schedules. They grate against something in me that doesn't want to be controlled. I like going with the flow and doing what feels right. That's okay sometimes. But I need schedu

Moment to moment. That's how I'm living right now. It used to be one day at a time. That's too long. Moment to moment. I'm not sure why. I'm tired of trying to figure it out. I currently live in a world of extremes. He's attacking and on the prowl, stalking me and wanting the kids--or he's completely silent for days and I'm chewing off my fingertips with worry about what he's planning and when he'll attack next. I'm still not free. I need to get to the space where it doesn't matter what he does or doesn't do, I can still be free. I play so many head games with myself. One of them is called worst case scenario. I figure out what the worst case scenario is and I accept it. Sometimes it includes death and dismemberment, sometimes it might be dealing with cops, sometimes it might be losing some sleep. Whatever the scenario, I figure out what the worst case might be, and come to terms with it. This helps me realize that, even if my g

Too many bad days in a row. He's been on the attack too many days in a row. He demands too much. He expects everything from everyone and recognizes the boundaries and feelings of no one. The kids have learned they have a choice. They've learned they have a voice. They are making themselves heard. He doesn't like it. "It's my turn and I'm in charge," he texted me. The kids don't care if he thinks he's in charge. They protect themselves. It makes him mad. I'm proud of them, but it's hard on me. I'm used to giving in to him to calm him down. I'm used to doing whatever it takes to make him happy and make him go away. It wears me out. Even though it's good for them to stand up for themselves, a tiny piece of me wants them to give in and just go stay with him so he'll stop. They're right to stand firm in their boundaries and what they feel is safe. I will never take that from them for my own superficial facade of peace. Thei

Feeling very weary today. I had to report him, yet again. I hate doing it. I hate making him accountable. I've always sucked at doing so and it hasn't gotten any easier. He needs help. He needs to be forced into treatment. He is so sick and his mind is gone and I don't know what else to do but enforce the consequences over and over and over until he wakes up or the courts wake up and order him into treatment. I don't enjoy it. I admit, there were a couple of times he got arrested that brought such relief I actually felt good. But now it's just getting old. It's getting ridiculous. I'm not a spiteful or vindictive person. My heart aches for how sick he is, how gone he is. I don't like destroying him. My daughter reminded me of something important today, though, as I sat filling out yet another police report with tears streaming down my cheeks. She asked me why I was crying and I told her I didn't like destroying her dad. "You're not the

My kids are rock stars. Or super stars. Or shooting stars. The sun is a star. It's big and bright and powerful and untouchable. That's my kids. I am in awe of them. I am in awe of their brilliance and resilience and ability to manage all that life has thrown at them thus far. My daughter was supposed to testify against her dad at the hearing where none of our voices were heard. I didn't tell her until the last minute, the day before the hearing. I didn't want her to have to worry about it or stress over anything until she absolutely had to. I sat her down and let her know she'd need to testify about the day her dad broke into the house and the other traumatic experiences she has had with him. I was prepared to comfort her, to offer her words of encouragement, to help her process what she would have to do. Here response was, "Finally!" and she began discussing what she should wear and if she should look sweet and innocent or tough and no-nonsense. I belie