I had done my best to do what I was supposed to do when a marriage is falling apart. I went to counseling. I followed the self-help advice. I listened. And I listened. And I listened. The record was most definitely broken.
I'm not sure who blurted out the D word first but I never let it go. D is for drama too, and there had been enough to make me want to return to Alabama where some of my closest friends lived. I knew that Pat and I would see each other so I didn't worry about missing her to terribly much. She supported my decision to move on with my life. She had been my sounding board for the past two years. I listened to myself as she listened to me. It was a mental process. Even though I had nothing to live on, I had to visualize and have faith that things could be more peaceful for me and the children. Once I did so, there was no stopping me but it would take some time.
I kept hearing him say:
"You are forty years old and have an autistic son! Just what do you think you're gonna do?"
I didn't know. I was scared to death. Before the final move there were some short term separations. Because of them, I could catch my breath and think. Everything was moving so quickly. The phone calls to my parents, his mother, the counselor, his friends, and anyone else who would listen to him continued. The dirty laundry had been officially aired. My parents were miles away in Shreveport. They felt helpless. They feared for me.
After a hellacious weekend, that Sunday night in April, I called my parents from my bedroom and said:
"I'm ready to make my move. Call the police and book me a room."
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