Please don’t be too late.

Five years ago, as we sat inside that pastors office one session, I will never forget what he said to us.

“I can help when a woman comes to me and says that her marriage is in trouble. I have yet to be successful when a man comes to me asking to save his marriage, for by then it is already too late. She has already given up on the situation.”

I’ve thought of this statement often throughout these years.

I keep screaming at him to wake up, pay attention, please don’t be too late. Because I never doubted the words of that pastor. I knew that any woman who said, it was too late, had probably spent years trying to get her husband to please just see her.

I’ll never tell him but I’m waiting to see what happens in May. If he sticks to counseling, if it actually brings about change. If not, then I just may turn into that wife in the pastors story.

Bastard told me that he thought of leaving for my own good. So that he would stop hurting me and that way I could really move on and find happiness. Had he been within swinging distance, I would have hit him as hard as I could. The rage inside felt different. It silenced all feelings of sadness. It left everything feeling a little bit dead and hollow. Like an out of control fire, flaring in rage, then almost dying immediately from lack of oxygen.

How dare he.

How. Fuckin. Dare. He.

I asked my counselor last week, at what point am I just being stupid?

As I cried and cried on her sweet love seat I wondered for a moment if she wouldn’t cry to. Not from pity, but because she seemed to recognize my pain. She knew what it was like to feel this.

I didn’t tell her how in the moments after he spoke those words that my forefront thought was, I will hunt you down if after everything you leave me like this.

Guess it’s a good thing I made more appointments.