March 20th, 2018
(I wrote this a month ago, but I’m just now finally brave enough to share it here. If you comment, please be kind.) I’ve probably taken 25 flights over the last year or so, and every time up until now I’ve thought that things would be better if the plane I was on just crashed, and I died, and Rob could collect the insurance money and hire a nice nanny to care for the kids and I could just go to heaven and be with Jesus instead of having to go through all the pain and hurt that comes with getting divorced. I know that this is completely selfish of me, and I would have never done anything to intentionally end my own life and leave my kids without a mother, but I honestly felt that death was the only way out of the situation I was in. I was not strong enough to leave my marriage, but it had become quite apparent that I was not strong enough to stay either. Today I took off on an airplane, on one last solo trip before I become a single mom, and for the first time in over a year, I did...